


Malfoy's Mudblood

by CarrieMaxwell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Ancient magic, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Assassin Draco Malfoy, Astral Forms, BAMF Hermione Granger, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Blood Curse, Blood Magic, Canon Divergence, Captive, Captured, Cruciatus Curse (Harry Potter), Dark Hermione Granger, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Death Eater Hermione Granger, Death Eaters, Doing Bad Things for Good Reasons, Dom/sub Undertones, Draco Malfoy Smokes, Draco switches sides, Draco with angel wings, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fiendfyre (Harry Potter), Forced Pregnancy, Good Draco Malfoy, Hades and Persephone Elements, Horcrux Hunting, Horcruxes, House Elf death (Harry Potter), Imperius Curse (Harry Potter), Imperiused Sex (Harry Potter), Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Legilimency (Harry Potter), Legilimency Sex (Harry Potter), Loss of Virginity, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Master/Pet, Morally Grey Hermione Granger, Narcissa the dragon, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Obsessive Draco Malfoy, Occlumency (Harry Potter), Old Traditions, Out of Character, Physical Abuse, Pining Draco Malfoy, Possessive Draco Malfoy, Prisoner of War, Prophecies, Prophetic Visions, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut, Supportive Lucius Malfoy, Supportive Narcissa Black Malfoy, Survival Tactics, The Astral Plane, Time Travelling Harry Potter, Time Turner (Harry Potter), Torture, Under the influence of alcohol, Unplanned Pregnancy, Voyeurism, Werewolves, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter), anti-hero Draco Malfoy, betraying the dark lord, betraying the order, cloak and dagger, double agent, graphic art included, illegal use of Time Turner, old rites, ophidiophobia (fear of snakes), put yourself in their shoes, secret communication, secret feeings, striking a bargain, the Malfoy family deflects, there are no sides when it comes to survival, wizengamot ruling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 94,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28004700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarrieMaxwell/pseuds/CarrieMaxwell
Summary: Held captive at Malfoy Manor, Hermione knows in order to survive she must subject herself to the hands of her classmate bully. She's prepared for torture, abuse, rape, and even death...but not...this.“If anyone has a claim on that bitch it’s me.” Draco declared, stepping right up to Fenrir and grabbing one of Hermione’s arms. The two faced off, growling and staring each other down, the poor witch in the center clearly terrified for her life, wondering which devil was the lesser evil..............................He reached for her face and brought her chin down so their eyes met. “This isn’t how I ever thought this would happen, just know that. But I’m trying to end this war. I will do what I have to.”..............................Voldemort’s hand clamped around her throat, standing behind her so that he could watch his young servants’ face.  “Well now, we have a little problem then, don’t we?” he teased, a hiss in her ear causing her to jump. “Tell me little witch, who is your master?” he breathed against her ear.“No one.” She answered firmly.“And therein lies the problem.” Voldemort concluded. “So let us play a little game. And the winner gets the Mudblood.”
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 315
Kudos: 441





	1. Captured

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is going to contain graphic art provided by Raymond Shaw  
> (https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaymondShaw/pseuds/RaymondShaw)  
> and Pinterest posts.  
> This work is NSFW, readingwise and visually. Art pieces are being added sometimes after the chapter is uploadedso it doesn't hurt to go back and check.

April 4th, Saturday, Wiltshire. 1998

Easter Break from Hogwarts

Fenrir’s talon-like claws gripped into her arm, digging through the denim of her jacket and grazing her skin. As long as she was still and didn’t struggle she wouldn’t be left with scratches from the filthy tips, risking infection if not worse from the werewolf. She wasn’t entirely sure if he believed her when she said her name was Penelope Clearwater, but nonetheless the Stinging Hex had mutated Harry’s face enough where they couldn’t be one hundred percent certain if they’d caught the Boy-Who-Lived.

She only wished she’d had enough time to zap Ron with it too or change his hair at least, there was no way they weren’t convinced he wasn’t a Weasley no matter what name he came up with. It was too trademark. While they weren’t certain if it was the Ronald Weasley, they knew they at least had someone from that family. And now they were being brought to Malfoy Manor where the Dark Lord had established as a base for his operations.

Oh fucking lovely.

The Manor was an impressive building, naturally, only the best befitting of such wealth, but the place was dreary and felt haunted, a cold aura radiating off the grounds despite the warmth of Spring in the air. She wasn’t there to appreciate the architecture nor the art and despite the severity of the situation a tiny part of her brain niggled at the thought of one day exploring the history of the magnificent structure. She couldn’t help it, knowing there was a massive library that rivaled Hogwarts own.

The comforting thought of studying knee deep in a pureblood’s family of historical records fleeted in an instant when she and the boys were brought to a drawing room, to the lord and lady, and the young lordling himself by the fireplace.

Oh Christ.

They chirped up at their fortuitous blessing, having their son here to identify what the werewolf and his cronies dragged in. Draco looked on the verge of flight or fight himself, as if he’d been having his own battles to fight. Perhaps the return of the Dark Lord hadn’t been the boon as anticipated after all. His face twisted in revulsion and confusion when he was brought to Harry, but she could see it in his eyes, those never wavering grey eyes that he damn well knew. But all he said was he wasn’t sure. Not a definitive no so it wasn’t a direct lie.

But when he was brought up to Ron and herself the game couldn’t be played the same way. Ronald and Hermione were a package deal with Harry Potter, everyone knew this. And here the two of them were, with a dark haired boy with a mutated face and a loose pair of glasses that had been plucked off the ground. It honestly surprised her they even needed Draco for a positive ID. This was an equation of the simplest formula. It was an odd sense of Fate that had brought them all here, together like this, on opposite sides of a war after so many years dealing with childish antics. This wasn’t Hogwarts where detention and point reduction would be the penalty for a wrong answer, this was life and death. Lives were on the line.

So why wasn’t he giving them up?

He waffled about Ron being any one of a dozen Weasley’s and how was he to be able to tell them apart, in that way that informed her he was trying his damndest to say anything but the solid truth. He wasn’t complying with the Death Eaters around him, despite the mark on his arm. She was witnessing the boy on the Astronomy Tower, lowering his wand at Dumbledore seconds before Snape interceded.

But when Fenrir gripped her tightly to himself and shuffled away from Ron, Draco caught her eye and he couldn’t help the tell that gave him away. Even a year being on the run couldn’t have changed her so drastically that he couldn’t mistake that naturally curly hair barely contained in braids, and he froze when his father came up beside him, hand possessively on his son’s neck, leaning in to whisper the importance of this moment.

A wild-haired woman in dark clothing with stained teeth and crazed eyes investigated over, as if searching her soul for the truth. She knew from the wanted pictures plastered on the front page of the newspapers that this was Bellatrix Lestrange, sister to Narcissa and thus Draco’s aunt. But one of the snatchers had to be nosy, rifling through her charmed beaded bag and extracted the sword and then all hell broke loose.

Hermione hit the floor as Bellatrix started screaming about having her vault raided, zapping curses at the snatchers as she ordered them to take the boys down to the dungeons while she discovered the truth. The woman started straight away with the Crucio, and as prepared Hermione thought she was for that it had superseded anything her body had ever experienced before, it radiated in her brain, her blood, and in her very core of magic. There was no adequate way to explain it.

She screamed. Writhed. Cried. Prayed. Pleaded.

But through it all she denied stealing it. Claimed they found it in the woods. Said it was a decoy.

The truth went unbelieved. There was no reasoning with madness.

Except when Draco finally interrupted. “Aunt Bella, wait a moment.” He said, breath tight in his lungs and worry in his eyes. “This one…she won’t break like that. We should get the Weasley…they’re all cowards anyways. He’ll tell us the truth in an instant.”

Wheezing with every breath, she couldn’t help but feel momentarily grateful that he’d given her reprieve, but knowing he was suggesting them to torture Ronald in her place erased the tiny glimmer of hope she had just begun cultivating that Draco might not actually be a terrible person after all. She knew Ron would cave because he was just that noble. But he wouldn’t last, that she also knew. He might face bludgers during Quidditch but this would take him too far. She hated that Draco knew he didn’t have the fortitude in him. After all, hadn’t he abandoned her and Harry for months now, only to show up and act like it had been part of his own personal quest when they were supposed to be a team? She wasn’t sure if she could ever find it in herself to forgive him for that, whether they lived through this or not.

“Ooooh, brilliant Drakey.” The woman cackled. “Fetch the ginger and we’ll see which one of them breaks first.”

Hermione caught that miniscule twitch in his jaw at the prospect of both of them being tortured together, just to see who would last longer. She had the feeling that was not what he was going for. Perhaps he had wanted a full exchange, but Bellatrix Lestrange was not the kind of dog that gave up a chew toy until she had a new one in her jaws. So Hermione would stay.

“No more Crucio until I get back.” he said. “Can’t have her breaking before the fun begins.”

The woman smiled something most sinister, chilling Hermione’s blood. She watched with sad eyes as her one hope for survival disappeared down the hallways her friends had been dragged down towards just minutes earlier.  
………………………..

This wasn’t what he had wanted. At all. Nothing had gone according to plan; nothing his father said had come true, nothing he had done had pleased the Dark Lord or his father despite successfully repairing the cabinet last year. If he had failed in that task too then it’d be his mother’s head on a pike staked in at the front gates for all to see the ruin of the dynasty of his family.

He’d been torn between trying to follow orders and making it look like he was following orders, torn between his loyalty to family and the compliance the Dark Lord commanded. Torn between trying to protect the younger students at the school and enforcing the crucio’s instructed of him. It was a miracle if he got more than four hours of sleep or finished a full serving at any given mealtime. The stress of everything was eating away at him, the worldview he knew so well completely uprooted and dissolving with each day.

Seeing firsthand, the death and torture of Professor Burbage, witnessing the ferocity of the slithering nightmare that was Nagini, smelling the blood and bodily fluids released from those tortured relentlessly from cruico after cruico had eaten away at him like a cancer. What was Voldemort’s plan if he was willing to bend and break his own followers? His father’s failure at the department of mysteries in fifth year landed him the Dark Mark and the burden of a lifetime and nothing had been easier since. If anything they were worse. He was called weak, teased for his hesitation, made present at every meeting and torture session in order to toughen him up, and was the butt of jokes from the other Death Eaters. They didn’t see him capable of filling the shoes set before him and they were right.

All he wanted was to run away from it all and never look back.

But now the fight was dragged to his very feet, his presence now becoming the very tipping point for everything to come. He could easily identify Weasley, Granger, and putting two Knuts together meant the bloated face buffoon was Potter. Just one word and then they’d summon the Dark Lord and kill the golden little trio and then his family might finally crawl out of the Thestral shit they’d been tossed into. But then what? Just more killing and torture and brutalizing of innocents…

But if Potter got out, there was still hope. He knew that there was none other that could face off with the dark wizard and even have a chance at coming out alive. It’d been evident to him for quite some time now. For the better part of all their years in Hogwarts, there was always someone coming after him in order in servitude for their master. It had been written in the stars and was evident as the scar on his face; it had to be those two facing off. Potter had to win and put an end to all this madness or there wouldn’t be a wizarding world left for anyone.

At their cell, Weasley was the first to jump to his feet and start shouting explicatives and threats. He quickly threw a silencing spell on him to save himself the headache of trying to shout over the hothead as Potter then stood and approached the bars.

“Listen.” He demanded of them. “They want Weasley now; torture the information out of them to see which one cracks first. They’ll be too distracted by it to hear it, but you’ve got to make it look convincing, take a shot but just get the hell out. Win this war Potter.” He said, opening the gate and grabbing Weasley by the shirt at his collar. “You still in contact with Dobby?” he asked, watching Potter’s bulbous head nod. “Good, summon him once you hear screaming, it’ll mask the sound. Get everyone out.”

And with that he dragged Weasley up to the drawing room where Hermione was now in the grip of Fenrir, the werewolf teasingly slashing her denim jacket and watching the scraps fall to the floor. She stood stock still despite the zaps Bellatrix shot her with, trying to make her jump enough that she’d gash herself against the claws of the werewolf. Just the two of them, playing with a toy they’d willingly shred to pieces should the mood suit them. He had to be careful in his approach.

Bellatrix twirled around upon his arrival, smiling gayly. “Oh you were right about this one. Such fierce strength, must definitely be a Gryffindor.”

“They all are.” He answered; kicking at Weasley’s knee and making him drop to the floor in a solid thud. “Had to silence this one just to think clearly. No doubt he’ll sing for you auntie.”

“Then we’ve no need of the girl, the wolf can have her-” she began, just as Fenrir ripped the rest of her jacket, and slashed the back of shirt along with it as he perked up at the woman’s bold statement. He wrapped a filthy hand around Hermione’s neck and pulled her against him, lewd thoughts just permeating from his aura, Legilimency not even needed to see it.

“The hell you will.” Draco snarled. “If anyone has a claim on that bitch it’s me.” He declared, stepping right up to Fenrir and grabbing one of Hermione’s arms. The two faced off, growling and staring each other down, the poor witch in the center clearly terrified for her life, wondering which devil was the lesser evil.

“I’ve had six years of her bullshite to contend with and I’ll be damned if I don’t get my retribution for it.” He clarified, tugging on her arm once again. The werewolf held her throat tightly, practically frothing with fury that the spoiled brat would dare take away his new toy before he got to play with her.

“Fenrir, you heard him. He has his claim.” Bellatrix said, walking over to Weasley and grabbing a handful of his coppery hair. “We can still fuck with this one.”

“The hell like I’m letting my catch go. I don’t see pretty boy here doing any work and yet he gets the spoils? Think again Trixie.”

The witch screeched at him, her shrill voice grating on the werewolf’s sensitive hearing as she demanded he never call her that and for him to give her nephew what he wanted. His parents were unfortunately not on good enough terms with the Dark Lord to state their opinions, even in their own home, with Bellatrix seemingly in control of the base while their master was away. Despite their reservations about Mudbloods, they’d willingly let Draco keep one if it meant less blood shed in their home. But they joined on the mad woman’s side, even going so far to say she could be an early birthday gift for their son.

This enraged the werewolf, who in a bloodlust filled rage thrust Hermione into Draco’s arms and then whipped out his wand at Bellatrix. A duel was starting right then and there in their drawing room. Draco cast a finite on Ron and then zapped him with something to get him howling in pain, the signal Potter was waiting for.

It all happened so quickly it was hard to distinguish between the spells and incantations and physical fighting to say who did what, but when the literal smoke cleared and the chandelier had crashed into the middle of the floor, the boys were gone, Fenrir was down, and Hermione was clutched in his arms in a death grip as he surveyed the damage done to the drawing room.

Holes blasted that lead right through the layers of wood and stone, singe marks and burnt curtains, broken furniture and upheaved light fixtures, spatters of blood and the awful lingering scent of smoke. Bellatrix was up and kicking the prone form of the werewolf as Narcissa was screaming at her for damaging her home and Lucius was raging to no one in particular about the loss of their prisoners and the incompetence of the henchmen, blaming Potter once again for everything.

He turned on Draco, who was helping Hermione to her feet and clutching her torn clothing protectively to her chest. “Hope your little plaything is worth it boy, the Dark Lord may not even allow you to have her once he hears of this.”

Bellatrix grabbed the werewolf and dragged him out of the room as if he was a sack of rubbish to be placed at the curbside, letting the Malfoy’s deal with their new acquisition. Hermione was vaguely aware of her wand and bag still in the room, on the floor by an overturned table, and the distance between them and the fireplace. Flooing wouldn’t be the best choice, seeing as she would have to say her destination out loud, but if she managed to get her items she could apparate out of there and hopefully meet up with the boys somewhere. She was subtly aware of Draco’s vice grip on her upper arm, practically the only reason she was on her feet currently. Ripples of crucio still jittered in her nervous system and she felt her body weaken with every second she was on her feet.

No,...I can’t succumb now, I need to escape….

But her body crumbled, leaving her to abandon her scraps of clothing to brace herself from hitting the floor face first as the Malfoy trio all took stock of her. It was the mother naturally, that voiced concern for her condition. “Draco, see to it that our guest receives a bath, proper medical care, and some new clothing.” She couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the state of what Hermione had been wearing for the past week, grime and blood as well as the tattered sight it was in.

“This is the little Mudblood you told us about, isn’t it?” Lucius sneered, looking at Hermione like she was a bog hag covered in boils.

Draco couldn’t locate his wand, so he picked the thin brunette up, surprised at her light weight. Surely they hadn’t been starving out where they had been hiding? She had still tried to maintain some sense of decency by keeping her arms firmly crossed over herself, but he could plainly see the planes of her ribs under her skin, along with more scars than he initially thought she’d have.

“She, father.” He corrected. “Not it. And yes, the so-called Brightest Witch of Our Age. I know she’ll be of use to us. Now if you’ll excuse me…” he trailed off, exiting the war-torn room and carried her bridal style up the stairs and into the suit of chambers that was his own. The whole while she remained silent, no doubt taking in her surroundings and planning her escape by memorizing what she saw on the walls to lead her out. She had that firm determination set in her face that couldn’t be anything else other than her mind at work.

“Quit plotting your escape.” He said, nudging a door open and kicking it closed behind him. “You’re too obvious.”

Throat too raw from screaming, she couldn’t even muster a witty retort but goodness if her narrowed brows didn’t convey a perfectly executed but silent “Fuck you.” that he could read clear as day. It surprised her when he placed her on the carpeted floor of his bedroom first-gently-and then opened the door to his own bathroom and started running a tub. The gesture alone was mollifying, that he was doing this personally rather than summoning elves to do his bidding. When he came back that’s when she worried as to why…He was going to see her naked.

“Alright now, off with those rags.” He said with a careless wave of his hand. “We’ll procure you something simple for tonight but I’ll have the elves take your measurements for your wardrobe later.”

Wardrobe?

But she didn’t budge.

“Good grief Granger you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before and you’re already half naked.” He quipped, hands on his hips. “You’re not getting in the tub while wearing that.”

When he advanced towards her she shrank back, slapping at his hands as they grabbed the belt loops of her denims and unsnapped the button. Her struggling only aided his undressing as the jeans slid effortlessly off her legs, revealing bruised knees and scraped shins and calloused feet in sore need of exfoliating. If that was what she was embarrassed about then he had sorely misread the Gryffindor’s shyness. But when he reached for her again that’s when he saw it, and his eyes went wide.

She was wearing dark green knickers with a little Slytherin crest design on the front.  
……………………..


	2. Collared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione finds out just exactly what price she has to pay for Draco’s allegiance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER for the Dubious Consent.  
> Even though she is agreeing, it is still under duress, but she knows she would receive cruller treatment with anyone else.

For a moment, their eyes were locked in a silent battle of questioning, burning curiosity, and bewilderment in each other before a knock on the door interrupted anything that could’ve happened next. Water was still running in the bath, the scent of lavender in the air as she realized he must’ve added some herbs and oils to the water.

He called for entry, the door opening to reveal a pair of house elves and a tray laden with potions and fancy looking box no wider than a CD case and only a few inches in height. He told one of them to tend to the bathwater before accepting the vial off the tray. He held it up to her face, watching her eyes take in with recognition that it was a pain alleviating brew to help with the tremors and lingering phantom pains her body was still registering. 

“If I really wanted to poison you I’d have done it years ago in school, with an alibi and plenty of witnesses.” Not the best statement to reassure someone with but it was brutal honesty and that she could respect. With an uncontrollable shaking hand she reached for the vial, but he withheld it. “You’ll spill half of it like that. Open up.”

She immediately shut her mouth and narrowed her eyes. Of course.

“Do want the fucking thing or not?” he barked, growing impatient with her stubbornness. Sweet Salazar, why had he even risked his neck for her in the first place?

After a nod from her be brought the glass tube to her lips and placed his left hand behind her neck, somewhat cradling her skull as she tilted back enough to swallow the contents, going slowly so as not to spill, another moment of awkward eye contact due to their proximity. Her hand took over holding the vial as she knocked back the rest, but his hand remained supporting her, although his free hand motioned to the elf and retrieved something from it.

Before she realized it, something smooth and soft was encircling her neck. A beat too late to stop it, her hand was up and grasping at what felt like a velvet ribbon, emblazoned with the Malfoy family crest in the center. Both hands were feeling all around but there was no end clasp. It had sealed away to be one endless loop around her neck, a collar on a pet.

She watched with furious eyes as he selected a seemingly ordinary grey band also set with the Malfoy family crest and clamped it on his left wrist. She watched as it too, sealed away any clasps or closures, so not even he could remove it-or her if she had thought to try-binding them together. “It’s simple really.” He said, holding it up for her to examine. “You belong to me. And this collar and cuff set binds you to me. I merely designate how much distance is allowed, whether it is just a foot-” He said while touching the emblem. Afterwards he moved his wrist and she felt her neck be pulled along towards it as if he were pulling on a lead. “Or six feet.” He touched the emblem again and she felt herself give from the loosened tension. He stood up and walked a distance away before she felt herself literally dragged forward by the invisible force, a distance of six feet away from him. “You can’t run away.”

Oh how she hated him. Loathed him more than anything and anyone and wondered if she should’ve taken her chances being at the mercy of Greyback. He was literally turning her into a puppet for his pleasure! And worst of all there was nothing for her to grab onto and yank back, to feel like she had even a modicum of control. She’d only be granted a livable distance from him if he so chose, which meant she’d more than likely have to beg for it. Every trip to the loo for instance, would be at his discretion. 

Fuckingwankingsonofapurebloodbitch!

“Now, let’s get you that bath if you want to wear any clothes or sit on anything other than the floor while you’re here.”

She knew she was dirty. She knew she smelled like wet leaves and earth and sweat and whatever else from being pressed against by a lustful werewolf. Did he really have to rub it in? Of course he did. She was currently quite literally his favorite thing to insult her by. A filthy little Mudblood. And he was providing her with his own tub for use, with hot water because she could see the steam wafting from the doorway, and had added in some fragrant touches. She supposed he could have dragged her down to the dungeons and thrown a bucket of water on her and called it done, so she wasn’t complaining. But that didn’t mean she was going to undress for him.

She noticed his eyes roving over her form, resting on her chest. There was a prominent scar she couldn’t completely hide that spanned in a paint splatter formation against her ribcage and trailed both up and outward across one breast and down her stomach. There was a story with that scar, one he more than likely was unaware of and probably burned with curiosity to learn of. It was a silent bet with herself that he’d inquire on that before the night was through.

“Alright, fine, you’ve tested my patience enough.” He snapped his fingers and ordered the elves to undo the rest of her garments and the braids in her hair, watching her scramble to cover herself as the two little creatures timidly approached the girl with apologetic eyes and set to their task, one swiftly unraveling her hair and the other nimbly undoing the bra hooks.

“Stop!” she rasped out, tears almost in her eyes. This was humiliating no matter whom the present company was, but more so because of whom it was. The bra was merely held up with the palms of her hands and nothing more, and she didn’t have the dexterity enough back in her clasp the closures. “I’ll take the bath…just…some d-distance please?”  
“And just how are you getting in there? Dragging yourself across the floor and then flopping in like a mermaid?” he laughed. Indignation burned her cheeks. Maybe if she just let him see the hideous scar he’d be so repulsed that he’d insist she never undress in front of him again. And so she did. She pulled her hands away from the dingy white lacey cups of fabric and flung it aside with more bravado than she felt, just to watch his eyes take it all in. His face sobered at the sight of the purplish tinted scar and how it blighted what would’ve been a beautiful, although underweight body. 

“Take her measurements.” He ordered one of the elves, eyes still on her. He stepped up to her again and took firm hold of one arm, propping her up to her feet and set her to stand for the elf with the measuring tape. A few moments here and there of the elf swiftly taking every aspect of her body and it was done, but not the humiliation. He let her arm go and she was able to stand on her own, believing he was going to grant her the dignity of allowing herself to march to the bathroom on her own, but she’d once against lured herself into a false sense of security. Before she knew it, he was grabbing the elastic hem of her panties and yanking them down her hips and bum and was mid-thigh when she managed to connect with his face.

“Little bitch!” he hissed as he rubbed his cheek. “You’d rather be a filthy little animal than have a proper bath? Fine then.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her hair back. “I’m through being nice.” She was up and over his shoulder, hands pressing against his back as hair obscured her vision and was unceremoniously dumped into the bathtub, cracking her elbow, knocking her knees together, and feeling her back collide with cold porcelain with teeth rattling efficiency that was certain to leave more bruises. As she came up sputtering she was just lucky she hadn’t accidentally bitten her tongue when jarred so roughly. The water was still warm and fragrant, soothing despite his treatment. It wasn’t in her to feel guilty about protecting herself as she hugged her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

“Clean this little witch. Head to toe.” He ordered the elves, then slammed the door upon his exit so hard that it echoed in her ears for several seconds afterwards. The tears burst freely then, unabashedly and with vigor, fueled by the rapid turn of events that had come to this conclusion.  
………………………

Fucking fried gillyweed, what the hell was he thinking? Taking this feral Gryffindor and claiming her as his property? He rubbed the tender spot she nailed him in; just thankful she hadn’t gotten a perfect connection like back in third year. But the deed was done; she was in the tub now at the mercy of Tipper and Willy. If she hadn’t been so bloody stubborn he wouldn’t have had to handle her so roughly so it was her own damn fault if she has more injuries. He had no idea what he was going to with her just yet, but first things first, getting her presentable was paramount. He still was trying to wrap his head around the fact that she’d been wearing serpent green knickers and that thought alone was enough to make him hard. Was that what she was trying to hide from him? There was another complexity to the layers of the Gryffindor swot and he intended to tear through all of them, now that she was his to do so with.

He lifted the grey band up and spoke towards the emblem, allowing a free range distance between them as he bounded down the grand staircase with less than usual poise and came upon the drawing room to find it in the middle of repairing by a team of house elves. The items he was looking for were set atop of the table they’d been knocked beside, merely to be out of the way of wall restructuring. His mother was there overseeing it, arms crossed and toe tapping in annoyance of it all.

“Draco, dear what are you doing here? You should be overseeing the care of your…pet.” She hesitated on the last word. Whatever her son had in mind for the girl was best left unknown.

“She was proving difficult with the simple task of undressing, so I have the elves tending to that business.” She saw the mark on his cheek begin to blossom.

“Did it not occur to you that she may not be willing to undress so easily?” she smirked. “It took some time before I was comfortable enough with your fathe-”

“Ah mum! I don’t need to hear this!” he cried, holding a hand up. “I just came for her belongings.”

“Draco, dearest…what are you going to do with her?”

He took in a breath, picking up her wand. It radiated with positive energy so much that it felt uncomfortably warm against his palm. “Figured I can dig into that mind of hers and see what information she has.” He plucked up the beaded bag, finding it heavier than he imagined. Goodness knows what else she had in there…

“No son, I mean truly…” her tone serious, hushed, and alert for prying ears.

“I’ll do whatever I have to.” He solemnly stated, leaving her to continue the management of restoring the drawing room. Honestly, it was the best answer he could give while betraying nothing.  
………………………..

The elves were gentle, that was a relief. Seeing bruises and scrapes and the occasional uncontrollable tremors in random limb had garnered some sympathy from the enslaved creatures and she wished she had her pair of socks at hand to free them with. She should’ve known that Malfoy would’ve taken every scrap of fabric she called hers with him when he left, aware of her sympathy for their treatment. 

She wasn’t sure how long she was in tub, and even as the water started to run cold they merely added more hot to it and continued. They were meticulous in the ministrations of weaving their tiny fingers through her hair, cleaning underneath her fingernails, and gently working over all her sore spots with softly whispered numbing spells. The water had turned murky and grimy as it drained, so they turned on the showerhead and let it rinse her over until it ran clear. 

I guess they were well within their rights to say I needed a bath, she thought sheepishly. But where they had currently been camping at hadn’t provided enough cover for river bathing and she’d stopped shampooing and conditioning her hair since winter as places to safely bathe were scarce while running the risk of hypothermia even with warming charms in place. The little helpers had finally introduced themselves as Tipper and Willy and assisted her onto a stool and draped a bathrobe across her shoulders when a heavy knock on the door disturbed the surreal serenity.

She slipped her arms through and just managed to knot the sash when the door opened brusquely, Malfoy’s head popping in. “Good.” He said with a note of satisfaction, motioning for her to get to her feet. A moment later he offered his hand to her, knowing her motor skills were still on the fritz. There was a customary hesitation on her part but she took it and wavered dangerously on the tiled floor. “Come on.” He urged, sweeping his arm under her weakened legs and once again hauling her out of the bathroom. Only this time, he set her gently on his bed.

“Appears your friend stole my wand in the scuffle, so I’m making do with yours.” He announced, holding up her beaded bag and watching her eyes go wide. “Now, we can also make this go a lot easier if you just tell me what your plans are…or I can and will dig for the information and you will not like the ways in which I do so.”

She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him.

“Ah, still sore?” he teased. “Well that shan’t do at all. I need you to talk.” He feigned contemplation before shooting her a sly grin. “Or we could do something that doesn’t require any talking.” His tone lowered as his hand ghosted over her knee and began lifting the hem of her bathrobe. She tightened her arms over herself and where her legs had crossed, trying to not give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Ah come now…what did you think Greyback wanted you for?” he questioned, fingertips slowly grazing the flesh of her freshly washed thigh. “Either he was going to make you his mate by turning you and fucking you relentlessly until it was assured you were pregnant, or he’d rip your throat out while fucking you, not caring if you lived while he came.”  
She shuddered with squinted eyes and tightly pressed lips.

“At least you have the option of a young and healthy handsome wizard who won’t be turning you into anything with a bite.” Her eyes flashed open to meet his toothy grin, a devilish smirk of teasing lust that she’d never seen before. Was this how he flirted? What was she supposed to say or do in lieu of this? “I can demonstrate, if you like…”

She couldn’t deny that husky whisper of his was hitting her baser senses and conjuring all kinds of images. But for the life of her she couldn’t understand why, when he had her already bound to him, that he simply wasn’t ordering anything out of her. It was almost like he was giving her the option to refuse him, which didn’t make sense. But that could merely be a trap.

Another tremor rippled through her, causing her to hunch up and fall to the right, but he caught her, his hand cradling her neck as he helped shift her back against the pillows. He leaned closer until his lips were brushing against the tendons in her neck. “We’re being watched.” He whispered. “I have silencing charms in place, but I know we’re being spied upon. And they expect me to be taking advantage of you right now.”

Another shudder coursed down her spine, a combination of the aftershock from the one that rattled her seconds ago and of the repulsion of being secretly observed.

“You’re going to have to aside your personal discomfort and allow me to give them a show, or you could fight me and make me hurt you.” The hand holding the back of her hair tugged at her hair a bit, exposing her throat. “You’re better off with me than any of them and you know it.” He said darkly, as if the very thought of handing her over somehow irked him. His teeth grazed her flesh, eliciting a gasp. “In order to survive you’re going to have to give me Order information.”

She gripped the sleeve of his shirt as she felt another tremor and keened as she began to buckle. How could he choose a time like this to start seducing her? The pain was not as bad as it could’ve been, she knew from the potion she’d taken earlier. Even the places where she hit the in the tub were no longer sore and the bruise on her elbow was already faded rather than blossoming more. Whatever he did to her right now would be diminished…and perhaps that was for the best. Her first time wouldn’t be as painful as she feared it could be.

The hand on her thigh had climbed higher, the short trimmed nails of his fingertips grazing her softly but enough to leave little red marks and goosebumps. The other firmly gripped her hair, and his teeth nibbled her earlobe. “I got your boys out of here, the least you can do is be grateful. I will keep you alive but it comes at a price, and you know what that is.”

She screwed her eyes shut and felt hot tears build up behind her eyelids. He was absolutely right and she knew it. No matter how twisted he’d gone about it, he saved her life, along with Ron and Harry. Now she had to make that sacrifice worth it. He could easily be punished for his action unless he had something to show for it.

“H-hate y-you.” She whispered between the tears and the touches.

“Hate me all you want princess, just remember to do your part if you ever want to be free.” His nails dug into her thigh, making her jolt. He couldn’t keep her forever but he’d keep her as long as he could. At the rate this war was tearing the country apart, no one could be certain of their future. They could both die tomorrow. 

Her hands went to cover her face as he trailed downwards; his tongue laving a line across her skin that he hoped that pervert Fenrir could smell from across the room and behind the bedroom door where he knew the bastard was watching. He’d mastered warding his bedroom ever since the Dark Lord took residence there, ever since receiving the dark mark, it was a complicated woven tapestry of layers, and yet…somehow, someone had managed to carve a peephole through it. At first, there was nothing for any spy to see and its presence went ignored, but now he wanted to find the culprit and tear their throat out. His money was on his aunt. She was Voldemort’s most loyal general. She hovered too close for Draco’s comfort. She was probably out there too, hence why his back was turned so they couldn’t read his lips. And as long as Granger looked uncomfortable they would be satisfied he was abusing her.

“I bet you never imagined you’d be bartering your body for your friends’ lives, did you?” he smirked, pulling her hands away from her face. “But here you are, ever the loyal Gryffindor to a fault, readable like Hogwarts: A History. Oh wouldn’t Godric himself be pleased.”

“Fuck you!” she cried, keeping her eyes glued to the ceiling. 

“I intend to princess. Have you been thoroughly fucked by both Potter and Weasley, or are you just a one wizard witch?”

She shot him a most venomous glare and clenched her fists. He pointed her own wand at them and cast Incarcerous, binding them together. “Ah, much better.” He said, bringing them up above her head and casting another rope to tie them in place. “Can’t have you blackening my eye now can we?” the wand and bag were set aside as he began to gently tug at the knot of her sash. “Oh you tied this pretty good now.” He laughed, a little surprised at how tight she managed the material.

She still didn’t answer his previous question, nor did she intend to. He’d find out soon enough.

She tried not to notice when he began removing his own clothing, kicking off his loafers and socks, unbuckling his trousers and shirt but keeping them on. He reached for her face and brought her chin down so their eyes met. “This isn’t how I ever thought this would happen, just know that. But I’m trying to end this war. I will do what I have to.”

Again, she squinted them closed. She couldn’t bear the sight of him, so open and honest and almost tender in this moment where she couldn’t reciprocate. If things had been different…so different…it wouldn’t be like this.

The knot gave way eventually, the bathrobe opened, her body exposed for his viewing. His hands glided across her silky skin, savoring the warmth of her, the scent of her, and even the patterns of her scars and freckles he’d never known about. He hadn’t lied when he said she didn’t have anything he hadn’t seen before, but he’d never seen HER before, and everything about her was different somehow. Being muggleborn didn’t make her body look or feel any different from the pureblood and half-bloods he’d fucked around with. A woman was a woman. They had tits and a cunt and some had more ass than others but they all had lips and put them to use in one way or another. But none of those perfumed dainty dolled up daddy’s girls had battle scars and beauty marks. Where they were all porcelain she was clay. Where they all fawned and simpered she had fought and snarled. Where they had been shy or lusty she was neither, knowing what was expected of her yet giving nothing away.

This might the only chance he’d have with her, however much something niggled at him to get this done with quickly and appease his onlookers, he would never forgive himself for making her feel worse about the situation by roughing her up in the process. A few cosmetic love bites just to mark his territory but nothing that would require a healer to tend to her. Which reminded him…A contraception charm! He grabbed her wand and waved it over her abdomen, incanting the spell and watching the glow seep into her skin. Not that his family would ever allow her to carry to full term should anything happen, but it was best to not have that be yet another burden on his shoulders.

It was one thing, fooling around in the Slytherin dorms where other couples were doing the exact same thing they were and all playing the same game of trying to be as discreet and quiet about it while watching his friends get their girls off and it was another to have to “force” himself on a witch knowing members of his own family might be watching. He had to find a headspace to imagine them in, just pretend this was a game they both were agreeing to. Some girls liked to play this way, wanted that dominating male to overpower them and at the same time make them feel secure. There were some wizards like himself who wanted their witches to lash them up and make them bleed, though it was hard to find a witch willing to do so. Right now, they were captor and captive.

“You always did have to be the top of our class.” He sneered, hands teasing her nipples into hard peaks. “I bet you like being on top too, always in control.” His teeth nipped a tender peak, earning her a jolt and gasp from the unexpected sensation. “But not here little witch.” 

Her head had sharply turned away from him, buried in the crook of her arm, practically in her own armpit just so she would not have to look at him. Not that beautiful face or that beautiful body grinding against her own. She couldn’t wear her heart on her proverbial sleeve and let him see the truth in her eyes and risk both their lives. He had to be the bad guy. The Incubus. The Vampire. Whatever dark and evil thing she could think of that could ravish her body but leave her soul in tatters. He’d do what was needed and be done with her, hopefully never needing to put on airs like this again. Let them think he broke her the first time and nothing else was needed.  
……………………………


	3. Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione give the Death Eaters creeping at his bedroom door a show. In return, she gives him some viable Order information that should spare her life. But his possessiveness rears its ugly head when he finds out whose shirt she’s wearing afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your Trigger Warning for the shifty grey area that is dubious consent and non-con and voyeurism.  
> NSFW graphic art inserted into story

A wolf with a wounded ego was even far more a cantankerous and irritated creature than usual. Once he recovered from his stupor from the bombardment of spells and fighting with not only Bellatrix but the bloated face of that Potter boy and the ginger haired lout. It’d been a spectacular blitz attack, and that fucking blond spoiled arsed little prince had been the sole reason of it. If he’d just let the witch go and man up then there would have been nothing for Potter to gain the element of surprise on and escape.  
And of course, HE was being blamed for that.

Licking his wounds, he finally was able to pull himself away from the insistent bitching from the lord of the manor, just huffing up a storm about how close they’d come to rectifying their wrong and earning the Dark Lord’s good grace. Ha, as if he needed that. He’d done his job. Caught the kids, brought them in. Weren’t his fault they escaped over a pissing match between him and the little blond pup. And he was still fuming that they’d given the girl over to him despite it all.

Like he’d ever done anything to deserve such a prize. He botched all three attempts on Dumbledore’s life in spectacular fashion, needing that spy Snape to step in and do it for him. There was no way Voldemort was going to stand for this. But he didn’t carry the Dark Mark, and therefore could not summon their master. Neither Lucius nor Bellatrix were willing to do so now after this royal fuck up. They just had to bide their time.

He heard the hurried footsteps of the little wanker as he dashed back into the drawing room and had a quick word with Lady Narcissa before departing, claiming he’d do whatever was necessary. Oh, he would see to that.

“Where ya off ta in such a hurry?” he snarled, leaning against the railing as the boy came to a stop, carrying the girl’s beaded bag.

“None of your fucking business.” He snapped.

“Oh I say it’s plenty my business, seeing as I staked my claim before dear old auntie had to step in and give her over to her precious wittle nephew.” He mocked in a sickening baby tone.

“Like I said, mutt, I’ve put up with that swot every year in school since we were eleven. She’s had it coming.”

“The little bookworm, that’s been your biggest rival all these years? Ha! Clearly you aren’t as smart as you thought you were.” Fenrir laughed.

“Potter cheated in sixth year, I wouldn’t put it past her to have done it as well. Gryffindors got away with bleeding murder in that school.”

The werewolf bared a fang. “I bet she could’ve offed Dumbledore without so much as a backward glance, made it look like an accident.”

Draco’s eye twitched. Yeah, he bet Granger probably could have.

“Let me have a go at her, then you can do whatever you want with her afterwards.” He continued in that feral grin of his.

“Sod off. I don’t share my belongings.” The teenager snarled, ready to whip out the vinewood wand and hex the shit out of this cretin. “You’d fucking kill her if I handed her over. And I know she’ll prove of use.”

“Warming your bed ain’t use to us unless she’s taking turns.” He winked salaciously.

“Intelligence you bottom feeder.” Draco sighed. “She’ll have information from the Order, plans with Potter, some kind of endgame Dumbledore thought up. He trusted her. And I aim to extract it.” He took a few steps and managed to get on the stairs before the werewolf prodded at him again.

“Like you said, the crucio weren’t gonna break ‘er, how ya plan on extracting it then?”

Draco bristled. “By force if I must. She’s weak and vulnerable right now. Wouldn’t take me much effort at all.”  
…………………………….

Weakened, yes. Vulnerable, yes. But defenseless? Hardly.

Hermione was understandably compliant, knowing body language spoke volumes. So pantomime was key. She couldn’t ignore every sensation though, and was at war with herself as she refrained from begging Draco to continue doing those pleasurable movements with his skilled hands and wishing he’d just act like a brute so she wouldn’t have to try so hard to fake this assault.

Why was he being gentle? He’d hated her all through school, even hoped she’d die their second year. She expected him to laugh at her predicament, pinch rather than caress, scratch rather than softly pet, and bite harshly rather than the nibbling he’d done to her neck. Pain she expected, could handle, knew how to counter with mental exercises. Pleasure though, was completely foreign. She didn’t know how to fight against things that made her body quiver and heat up and felt oh so good. Despite what she might call dirty talk, he wasn’t being the cruel dominator she mentally prepared herself for.

If this was going to be the only time she would have with him like this, she would savor what she could of it, but she couldn’t meet his eye when he was touching her like he actually cared. She was just a means to an end, a tool to use for information and being extracted in the way expected of him. Just scrunch up her face, jerk away from him, make them believe he hurt her and then tell him some slightly old but no longer useful Order information. Do what she could in order to survive her duration here…until something happened. Whatever that would be.

He’d latched on to her neck, first with a bite that sent shockwaves through her body, had her eyes rolling back and gasping for breath. She’d never been bitten like that in her life before and now doubted she’d ever look at a set of teeth the same way again. He suckled the spot now, creating a blemish she’d seen plenty of times on Lavender thanks to her exhibitionist type relationship with Ronald. Why Draco was doing it she couldn’t say.

His hand roved over the scar on her torso, tracing the shape of it like he was committing it to memory. When his fingers traced along her belly button she flinched because it tickled and tried to bury her laugh within the crook of her arm, tossing her hair over her face in the process. His hands switched to brace on either side on her inner thighs, spreading her legs apart and nestling himself against her so she could feel his length. It startled her, wondering just how something like that was supposed to go inside her when all she ever managed in her rare moments of privacy was two fingers. This part of her life had left little time or place to explore other than with books, so everything set her nerves on fire.

Even feeling his breath above her breasts and stomach sent her in a fit of sensory overload. Were bodies even supposed to be touched like this? And what would she be doing were her arms not bound? Part of her wanted to dig her nails into him, drag them along his back, across his chest, touch him…down there. Curiosity had always been her weakness. But she wasn’t allowed to be in control, she was the captive.

The moment he grazed over her clit she clamped her legs close on him and scrunched up her body like a clam. It probably looked convincing to an onlooker. He wasn’t deterred in the slightest, actually, he continued, rubbing the spot and changing pace and direction, sending her into a spiral of unparalleled pleasure. Her body shook and clenched, at first believing it another tremor from the crucio until it had passed, leaving her breathless and hot, her blood singing in a different tune. Malfoy merely chuckled, placing a kiss upon her sternum.

“Oh now don’t tell me that was your first?” he practically purred with delight.

Oh, now she knew what that was….

And yes, it was.

Not that she was going to confess to that.

He took her hips in hand; thumb rubbing her nether lips, watching as she released her lubricating fluid naturally. Perhaps it was the angle in which his fingers were entering her, but she’d never been able to achieve this on her own, this thrilling electric feeling. Two fingers of his slid in with ease and she knew his hands were larger than her own. He practiced with a back and forth motion, then firmly nestled inside her moved them up and down together, then separately, driving her absolutely insane. It was incredible just what the hand was capable of! His hand. Would any hand ever compare after this? Granted she lived long enough to even try with someone else. An inferno built within her, starting at the juncture of her thighs and crawling across her belly and rumbling in her chest, constricting in her throat and flushing her cheeks telling her she needed more than him just doing this. She needed him. That thing which had been poking through his trousers and against her thighs, feeling hard and soft at the same time, bristling with its own heat and wetness.

“I can’t take anymore!” she whispered; face wet and this time not from any kind of discomfort. If anything, she felt like she’d die if he didn’t get it inside her soon.

“You’ll be taking a lot more than this.” He promised, moving hair from her face. “It might hurt despite everything. If so, I’m sorry.”

Her eyes immediately darted off to the side, fixating on a point on his wall. Why’d he have to go and apologize? Why look at her like that?

“Just do it.” She murmured, bracing herself. Just get it over with.

She felt a soft slick prodding, something thicker than the width of a single finger-perhaps even two-and blazing hot. He was rubbing it against her, preparing her for what was to invade her body and take away the last thing she could call her own. After all, she’d lost her parents due to this war, and possibly her life was the next to go, what use was someone’s virginity at a time like this? The rounded tip entered slowly, creating a wet friction that had her thighs shaking with every centimeter further and further in. Just when she felt like it would never end he came to stop, touching that tender wall that separated a woman’s worth was considered in life.

She felt his hesitation despite his heavy breaths and tightly gripped hands on her hips. A tiny squeak emitted from her as she squinted her eyes close and grit her teeth when he pushed through, hands clenched in nail digging palms that created little crescent moon indentions. He continued pushing into her, stretching untouched territory with slow movements until he’d reached the end of his length, where he stopped to let her body adjust. He could feel every bit of her tremble as her breath hitched, her face twisted in true discomfort. He hadn’t done enough to ease the intrusion so he took languid motions as he pulled back and moved forward, eventually easing the tension.

It was a quick transition from pain to pleasure, almost with the ease of flipping a switch, and suddenly everything was burning and brimming with electricity and firecrackers. Every push and pull created a new sensation that rippled through her. It was better than she had ever imagined. It felt like her magic had awoken all over again, with her holding her wand for the first time, that connection between witch and wand. Now a new connection, between witch and wizard was forged in the collision of bodies and souls.  
His lazy strokes began to speed up into frenzied thrusts, her breath hitching higher and higher until she felt like she was singing rather than breathing, her body betraying every intention of pretense as parts of her she hadn’t known could be touched were filled with dragonfire and stardust. It felt like if she tried right she would sprout wings and could fly, magic at her fingertips and toes and very air around her would shift to her command.

“Hermione, look at me.” he whispered, breath just as tight and teeth clenched as her own. Something in his voice had changed. Gone were the snarky jabs that were the coping mechanism to forge through with his task, replaced by something deeper and primal. It compelled her beyond reason to obey. When they opened and focused on him she felt her heart contract and her lungs empty. Those grey orbs she’d known to look at her so cruelly were startling silver with blown pupils, and glistening.

She felt the walls around him clench tightly as her body constricted once again, an animalistic cry clawing its way from her throat and stealing what voice she had left as the orgasm tumbled through her, followed closely by his own guttural growl and jets of hot lava shooting through her as his sweat drenched body heaved one final sigh before collapsing on her chest, her body still twitching and taking every drop he emptied into her. He’d brought them both to the brink and back, every ounce of energy ebbed from him so he was left pushing himself off her with quaking arms and a heaving chest, fumbling for the wand and muttering a breathless finite to release her.

He’d taken the right side of the bed, closest to the nightstand, clutching her wand to his chest like a lifeline as she rolled over to her left, fixing the bathrobe so that it covered her. Every neuron of her was firing on a different caliber; everything she knew about her own body had been flipped upside down and shaken senseless. She didn’t understand what she was feeling, why her body was still thrumming like a car engine and her heart fluttering like the fast beating wings of a hummingbird. Or why her face was wet.  
Had it been enough?

…………………………….

Neither spoke or moved from their positions for quite some time. Eventually, Draco realized that she’d fallen asleep, no doubt exhaustion both mental and physical causing her to shut down despite the early evening. He let her rest; chances were there wouldn’t be much of it here. He eventually had to readjust himself and zip his fly, completely forgetting he was holding her wand hostage and doing it by hand.

He risked a look over at her form, watching the rise and fall of her side in rhythmic patterns of deep sleep, curled into a ball with her knees tucked up to her chest and feet practically touching her bum-where he noticed a red spot on the white terrycloth bathrobe.

He immediately sat up and slid off the bed. Sure enough, a faint red smudge blemished the otherwise pristine but mussed grey sheets of his bedding. A bitter taste filled his mouth and sunk into his stomach like a stone in a well, the heavy realization of what he’d done. What he’d taken on top of what he’d done. Suddenly he was swiftly running to his bathroom and upending the seat, emptying his stomach in dry heaves as he hadn’t eaten much of anything long before the snatchers arrival and everything going tit’s up since then.

After washing his mouth out and breathing his teeth he called for Tipper and asked for tea to be brought with a throat soothing potion added into the brew. The elf disappeared with a pop, leaving him to buttoning up his shirt and finger brush his frosty blond hair. When the elf returned with the tray he inquired as to proper clothing for her. He wasn’t happy when the little creature assured him that several outfits would be ready by morning. Until then she had to make do. He marched the tray in and set it on the bed and then flung open dresser drawers, fishing around for something he had from a previous year or two that would pass and not be too large for her.

The noise must’ve disturbed her, as she woke with a start and clutched the loose opening of her robe and surveyed her surroundings, finding an irate Draco flinging shirt after shirt into a pile on the floor after holding it up to his chest and muttering that it would ‘simply swallow her’ before he noticed he had an audience. This one being far more preferred to the one that had pawed at his door earlier. She scratched at her head, mussing her chestnut curls and popping a vertebra in her neck. He motioned towards the tea tray and then went back to ransacking his wardrobe.

Entertained and curious, she brought the teacup to her lips and sipped gingerly, watching him. He had a method to his madness, but he wasn’t getting the results he wanted judging by the pile sitting on the floor. He sighed and flopped down into his chair. “Your clothes won’t be ready until tomorrow.”

“Ah.” She nodded. Now the clothing mountain made sense. She noted that her wand remained at his side. He wasn’t leaving it to chance for her to reclaim possession of it. But he also had her beaded bag. She had spare clothing within, along with all the supplies and extras she’d packed for the road. “Have you checked my bag?” she asked.

“No. Should I have?”

“Yes. I packed several days’ worth.” She touched her throat in surprise, eyed wide. Her voice was back to normal.

“Throat soothing potion added.” He explained. “And honey.” He flicked her wand at the massive pile that had accumulated on the floor and with some fancy wrist work managed to air fold and set them back into their respective drawers. It reminded her of magic depicted in cartoons and movies in her childhood. A simple flick and everything was simplified to mere seconds of time. It wasn’t always so simple but it was if you knew the right spell. “Well I was looking for something of mine that might fit and was having trouble.”

He took to his feet and held up the purple purse with beaded trim. Simple and innocuous upon first sight, easily overlooked. After a moment’s hesitation he tossed it on the bed, indicating she was free to go through it at her leisure. After all, he had her wand and had her on the collar; she couldn’t pull something out of there and overpower him with it without him reacting with either item.

She finished the last of the warm soothing liquid in her cup and grabbed her beloved bag, sinking her arm in up to the shoulder as she moved aside larger items to skim about and grab anything clothlike. There were also changes of clothes for the boys, but they’d never complained about her wearing their shirts or jeans when it was laundry day and she needed something to tie over for the time. They all were losing weight due to the meager pickings and low supplies. A few moments of fishing produced a few items but those blasted knickers of hers had disappeared again!

Damn it.

This is why she bought the variety pack, hoping the bright colors would be easier to spot. It seemed like the way the dryer would occasionally eat a sock, extendable charms could vanish a critical piece of her wardrobe. She knew if she brought up the subject, it would open the segue for him to inquire why she was wearing Slytherin pride. Hell, they weren’t all that important right now, she could do without.

“You can dress in the bathroom.” He said, immediately looking away from her. “Then I’m going to need information from you to give them. Something legitimate.”

She nodded, picking up the pair of joggers and a regular Quidditch themed tee shirt, one of Ron’s favorite teams, the Chudley Cannons. Unfortunately, no bra or any other pairs of knickers presented themselves. It didn’t matter; she had no plans to leave the room considering who was out there and what they wanted. No doubt her presence would not be widely accepted either, best to be out of sight and out of mind.

Alone in the bathroom she sat on the toilet and let out a shuddering breath, taking stock of the situation she had found herself in. This morning she woke up in her tent, just another day in a mindless blur of many on the run in their mission, and now she was a prisoner of war, deflowered and property of her reluctant master. Her life belonged to him, as she was aware of the magical contract of life debts; his claim to her went deeper than his perceived misgivings throughout their school years. The collar and cuff just made it look official.

She traced the velvety ribbon around her throat, wondering how it was supposed to come off and if it ever would. He said he wanted to end the war. But in who’s favor? Had saving Harry and Ron merely been a red herring? Was he still faithful to Voldemort despite his hesitation to do what had been ordered of him? Malfoy never had been the type to listen to any authority figure while in school, and it would seem the year had not changed that about him. She was alive for information; he knew she was the smartest of the three. He’d understand her better than any of the lot here, like he knew she wouldn’t give into Bellatrix through the Crucio.

As she slipped the joggers up her legs she felt a slight soreness in her most intimate area and had to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. He didn’t want to do it anymore than she had been willing, but they’d come to a quick conclusion that it was better him than anyone else. He’d at least tried to go easy on her. Was he still put off by the fact she was muggleborn and therefore somehow a lesser witch than a pureblood? It didn’t seem like it, but she wouldn’t get her hopes up. He could’ve pretended she was someone else for all she knew.

After donning the shirt she held the bathrobe up to her chest for a moment, the memory of what it carried giving her a strange nostalgia. A girl was supposed to treasure her first time, with a special someone in a special setting, the two of them either betrothed, engaged or forgoing tradition and just living progressively like more were doing nowadays. She hadn’t given much thought to her future, who it’d be with and when. Not when there had been more important things to worry about. Grades and staying alive. After the blow-up with Ron in fourth year over Yule, she wondered if every guy friend she had thought the same way about her. And when he was dating Lavender she took the relationship like a slap in the face, that somehow she had failed at being feminine enough to snare herself a wizard. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been any sparks between her and McLaggen-which might be a blessing in disguise-and after that there were few chances to turn heads before Dumbledore’s death and the official beginning of the war.  
It could’ve been worse, she told herself. It could’ve been a thousand times worse.

Knocking on the door shook her from her reprieve and had her heart jumping nearly out of her throat when he was in the doorway, looking a little cross at her. “I don’t have all day!” he declared impatiently, seeing as she was fully dressed and just piddling about. He noticed the bathrobe bundled in her arms, the dulling red stain a stark reminder of their act.

“Just throw it in the hamper. The elves will tend to it.” He said, pointing to the ornate cylindrical receptacle by the towel rack. “Unless you feel like washing it by hand.”

“Sorry bout the stain.” She mumbled, believing he was disgusted for the blemish against his property, regardless of its function.

“It’s a bathrobe Granger, not dress robes for a gala.” He scoffed. “You’ve seen me play Quidditch; you think I don’t walk about without dirt and blood afterwards?”

“That’s because it’s yours.” She said. “Not my blood.”

Right. Filthy dirty polluted unworthy muddy blood.

He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I guess that answers my question from earlier.” He stated with feigned aloofness. Watching her bristle at the implication from earlier that she had given herself to both of her best mates. A second later the balled up bathrobe went sailing into the hamper and she glared at him with crossed arms. Ah there she was, angry and despising Granger.

“So, what’s the best intel you can give me?” he asked, getting straight to business.

She steeled herself. Anything she could say would feel like a betrayal but her life depended on it. She needed to give them something they could verify and deem her necessary to keep around. “We were in contact with Charlie Weasley, he’s a dragon tamer. We were to have him fly a few in for the final confrontation.”

He nodded, clearly needing more.

“The Order occasionally met at 12 Grimmauld Place, it was bequeathed to Harry when Sirius died.”

“Yeah, I heard that happened at the end of fifth year.” He said.

“Bellatrix did it.” She said flatly, staring at the wall, remembering that night in full detail, unconsciously bringing a hand up to her massive scar on her ribs.

“You were there?” Funny how that tidbit had never been brought up before. His father ranted about his failure there often enough, but his pride had apparently prevented him from admitting he’d been bested by the muggleborn and her friends. It would appear that neither Malfoy male could ever beat her.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Of course I was. It had been a trap though. We were lucky.”

“Was that when that happened?”

She didn’t have to look at him to know he meant her scar. Of course. Who wouldn’t be curious upon seeing it? She’d never be able to enjoy a summer in a bikini, let alone a mid-drift tank top, or maybe even the touch of a lover with the lights on because of it. A tear slid down her cheek. “Dolohov.”

He nearly slipped off the frame of the doorway. Antonin Dolohov? One of Voldemort’s strongest supporters and master duelist? The man was ruthless and merciless against those who didn’t follow the Dark Lord. He wouldn’t have left Hermione standing. “How?” was all he could muster, curiosity bubbling over his need for the intel he’d promised.  
“It doesn’t matter does it?” she snapped. “They still failed to get the prophecy and couldn’t even kill a handful of students.” Then she turned and glared at him. “And you have to pick up your father’s slack now don’t you? That’s why Voldemort” she watched as he flinched at the spoken name “…tasked you with killing Dumbledore-to show the Malfoy line wasn’t weak. But you couldn’t, could you? Because you aren’t like your father.”

“Like him or not, he’s still lord of this manor and-”

“Didn’t look like it to me.” she scoffed. “Seems like ‘Aunt Trixie’ is running this show.” She echoed the teasing moniker Fenrir had addressed his crazy aunt as she taunted him.  
“You don’t get to speak like that to me.” he growled.

She took to her feet. “What worse could you do to me?” she challenged him, seeing if he really had it in him.

“Come here.” He ordered, snapping his fingers on his left hand. Suddenly she felt herself pulled by an unseen force and right into his grasp, his hand around her throat and the other pulling her hair back so she was forced to look up at him. She quickly gripped his left wrist, feeling it for a seam in a feigned struggle. They stared each other down in silent battle of wills, neither giving ground as they searched the other for weaknesses. “I could simply Imperio you to obey me, and you’d be stuck in a body succumbing to my every whim.”

His voice had done that thing again, the timbre deep and dark, laden with bad intentions and naughty thoughts, a promise and a threat, a dare and a riddle she was almost lured into wanting to decipher. His left thumb trailed along the veins in her throat; close to a pressure point that would render her incapacitated if he applied pressure. Was he aware of it? His right hand, knuckle deep into her semi-damp curls, pawed along the back of her skull, triggering sensitive nerve points that connected to the amygdala and thus releasing the endorphins associated with pleasure. She tried to not let herself be carried away with the oddly intimate sensation it created.

“Why didn’t you just do that when you had me earlier?” she snapped, digging her fingernails into his wrist.

His eyes narrowed at her, taking in her fierce fiery eyes and wondering what she was plotting, riling him up like this. Was she aware the silencing wards were down? He had to take them down in order to allow the elves in to change the bedding and remove the tea tray; anyone could be lurking in the hallway at this moment.

“Maybe I will next time.” He responded with every ounce of feigned intent, watching her brows furrow into an equally challenging retort, trying to call his bluff. Fucking relentless witch! Always up for a fight. Course, she wouldn’t be who she was if she didn’t. Never backing down, even when slammed into a corner and stripped bare. Always teeth and claws and vitriol to match anything thrown her way. He never had such an opponent before meeting her. And he’d never won in fair fight against her either.

“I won’t be so easy to tie down ‘next time’” she hissed, digging into his flesh. In return he pulled her hair harder and watched her wince but remain firm. They were in stalemate and knew it, each too prideful to be the one who backed down first.

“You two will be like that all night unless you take control Draco.” A bored but dark voice slithered in, causing both teens to turn towards the source, still gripping each other.

“Father.” Draco greeted. “Just in time.”

“You’d allow the Mudblood to handle you so?” he inquired with an arched brow, trying to maintain the swagger she remembered him having prior to his imprisonment but he relied a little too much on his cane for it to merely be for show and status.

“I don’t mind a few scratches. Wouldn’t be a lion if she didn’t have claws.”

“Has your dalliance procured something of use?”

He jerked her head a little, but she didn’t let go of his wrist. Her nails may not be digging into him like they were, but he wouldn’t put it past her to be holding on to him in some sense of security.

“A few things. Was reminding her what would happen if she didn’t comply.”

Lord Malfoy looked down at the muggleborn witch who had the audacity to try manhandling his son, then again she’d been uncouth enough in mostly everything she did from what Draco had informed him of in his letters. Thinking she was something special, being most professor’s favorites, proficient with her craft. He’d seen the witch in action, full of Gryffindor bravery. It would be fitting to have his son break that spirit and take her down a few pegs off that pedestal everyone set her on. She could practically see those thoughts across his face.

“Carry on then. Meet with us for dinner with what you get out of her.”

Once the door closed behind his father’s departure, Draco released Hermione with an ungraceful jerk of his hands, causing her to wobble unsteadily and clamor to his bedpost for support. She tenderly rubbed her throat while he massaged his wrist, each shooting each other daggers.

“Don’t fucking make this worse on yourself by playing the martyr.”

“I won’t ever go down without a fight.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.” He agreed snarkily. “But I need more than an old location. Who are the members? How do you contact each other? Shit like that.”

She leaned her back against the bedpost. She couldn’t betray the Order, but there were members they probably knew about. “McGonagall, Moody, your cousin Tonks…”

“Cousin?”

She cocked her head to the side. “You don’t even know? Andromeda’s daughter. A Metamorphmagus too. Extremely helpful in undercover missions.”

“I had no idea.” He confessed. Much of his family’s history had only been taught by those who deemed what was important to know. Aunt Andromeda was disowned and burned off the family tree tapestry for marrying a muggleborn. Which meant his cousin was a half-blood. And with a powerful and rare ability too. He’d never met a Metamorph before.

“As for contact...heh.” she let out a little laugh. “None of you can do it…”

“Do what?” he demanded with crossed arms and weight shifted to one leg.

“A corporeal Patronus.” She answered smugly. No way would she mention the coin. She didn’t even know where hers currently was.

He remembered third and fourth year when the subject had been broached. Potter of course, fucking boy wonder that he was, managed to summon one to keep the Dementors away. It was all anyone talked about for a while. And in class while the rest of them were being taught, all he managed was wispy smoke at best. No matter how happy the memory was. Now he was hearing that you could communicate with them? What the fuck?

“That’s all you’re getting.” She said in a clipped tone. “You’ve taken enough for one day.”

He bobbed his head a little in response to her tone, just like they did often enough in class. Haughty little bitch as always. With dreadful fucking taste in Quidditch to boot. The Canons, really? Salazar, the Hornets were far better. But what did she know, with her nose in a damn book every game?

“Since when did you develop a taste for Quidditch?” Upon seeing her confusion he jutted his chin at her shirt. She looked down and chuckled.

“Oh this….it’s just one of the guys’ shirts.” She answered like it was nothing of consequence. “I borrowed theirs all the time.”

“Whose?” he demanded, brows narrowing.

“What does it matter? I’m not wearing any of your precious expensive fancy assed ones.”

He stormed up to her and grabbed the shirt. “Whose. Fucking. Shirt. Is. This?”

Jealousy. It was written all over his face. She could see it plain as day.

Honestly, she didn’t know which name would piss him off more. He hated Harry for a plethora of reasons; making the Quidditch team in first year, rebuffing his offer of friendship, winning the Felix Felicis in sixth year… And Ron, well, he hated him directly on sight and it never got any better since. The mere fact that he thought she’d been either of theirs’s girl was enough to tell her that it didn’t matter either way. Why he was jealous though, that was the question.

But she had no reason to lie. So she told him.

“Take it off.” He ordered instantly, eyes darkening and voice laced with bone chilling authority.

“Fucking make me.” she spat at him, grabbing the shirt out of his grip and plastering it tight across her body. “You didn’t have a problem with it earlier.”

“No fucking witch of mine is going to wear anything belonging to a Weasley.” He proclaimed, as if there was an audience that would cheer him on for saying so.

“I’m not your witch.” She vehemently retorted, backing up when he grabbed her arm and squeezed.

“Yes you are.” He corrected, tapping the collar around her neck. “Forgotten already? Mine. And you will do to kindly remember that. Now remove that peasant’s pitiful taste in teams or I’ll rip it off.”

“I…I don’t have anything else.” She confessed, hoping that if she sounded pitiful enough he might just let her wallow in it to appease his fragile ego.

“I don’t care.” He stated plainly. He simply wanted that Weasel’s clothing off his witch even if she was reduced to strutting around naked. To think he’d torn his dresser apart trying to find something adequate for her and she had the gall to pick something of that ginger prick’s and think it was fine and dandy?

When she didn’t comply, his father’s words rang in his ears. He needed to take control, establish some dominance if she was to recognize her place here. No more being gentle and trying to appease to her sense of morals. He grabbed the neckline in both hands and yanked down and in opposite directions, the well-worn, more than likely hand-me-downed shirt giving way and tearing right down the middle.

“Bastard!” she screamed at him, hands instantly going to her chest in a futile attempt for modesty. “I hate you!”

“Fucking hate me. I told you to remove it or lose it. Did you think I was playing?”

“What is it about him that you hate so much?” she cried, tears spilling down her cheeks as she pulled the edges of the shirt together.

Instead of deigning to give her an answer he marched over to his dresser. “Come here if you don’t want to be left like that.” He opened up a drawer and this time was fishing around in a far more controlled manner, remembering something he’d considered for her earlier. She reluctantly followed him, glowering the whole time, holding the torn shirt like a lifeline. When he turned around to her she immediately jerked her head to the side, unwilling to meet his cold grey eyes.

“This.” He announced, a wad of green cloth in his grip. “Is far more appropriate.”

“Whatever.” She muttered. She flinched when she felt his hand touch upon one of hers. In all the years they’d ever known each other, they’d never once actually had any skin to skin contact, and here it was, she belonged to him, her body a mere toy for his pleasure, and he was now treating her like a doll that needed to be redressed. Steeling her nerve, she let the shirt go and hung her arms at her sides, allowing him to slide the useless garment off her shoulders, baring herself to him once again.

“Shame about this…” he drawled, tracing a finger idly along her scar. He felt her tense up. “Like a vase, once broken and glued back together, the lines still visible so you know it was once damaged. Never quite the same as it once was…”

That’s all she’d ever be. Damaged goods. This would be all a man would see and judge her for. Never mind her brilliance and loyalty and resourcefulness. No, she was scarred and unpretty.

“Just let me cover it up then.” She pleaded softly, just so done with it all.

“You’ll be wearing only what I approve…and the same goes for your knickers…”

Oh god, here it comes. She swished some air out of her nose and resigned herself to the inquiry and teasing remarks but was caught off guard when she felt the neckhole of the shirt he selected slip over her head. Defeated, she held her arms up and slid them through the sleeves when he brought them up, then felt him smooth down the shirt, grazing against her torso and lingering on her hips possessively.

“Much better.” He grinned. He turned her around so she could face the mirror that hung over the dresser, realizing she was a whole head shorter than him, he pulled out her wand and pointed it at the furnishing and levitated it off the wall so it floated at her level, where she could plainly see herself in his old Quidditch jersey.

Of course. She ruefully mused. And it had his name on it too. Like his property.

It hung loose across her shoulders and down to her thighs and she hated to admit it was comfortable enough for her to sleep in or lounge about with a pair of joggers. It was just the fact that it was green. Slytherin green. And his. With his eyes bearing down on her in such a way that made her nervous.

He liked what he saw. Like that blossoming purple blotch on her neck and his name across her back. She was his after all.  
…………………………


	4. Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione makes a stand in the only way she can, but will her resolve break when it push comes to shove? All is not black and white anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now contains graphic art depicting mild violence and slight blood

She shuddered when he placed a possessively harsh kiss to the mark on her neck, reminding her it was there-as if she couldn’t have missed it in her reflection-before he left his chambers to join his father. He hadn’t spared her a parting farewell or even the promise of a meal, but she wasn’t going to ask. There was the telltale turning of the lock with the use of a Collorportus, securing her within her gilded cage of a prison cell.

He had her wand and her freedom, but she was otherwise left to her own devices. So now she surveyed her surroundings, eyeing shelves lined with books and expensive trinkets, Quidditch memorabilia and artwork of the sort one would expect in an ancestral home, gilded frames and all. Everything he owned screamed of money and prestige, and probably of dark curses that would bite her finger off if she as much touched it.

The room was the size of a modest London flat, how he managed to find comfort in the multi-roommate condensed Hogwarts dorms was beyond her understanding. Surely it had taken some adjusting. She checked the window, finding it unlocked but unsure if she could make the landing and escape without raising an alarm. It was turning to dusk and she did not know the length of the property line, the wards in place, nor the general Wiltshire landscape enough to brave a daring break-out with no wand or weapon. Best to not risk it right off the bat.

She’d need time to plan. Time spent here that she wasn’t sure she could endure. It had already been a few hours and look what had happened in that short span. It’d be idiotic of her to assume she was safe merely because Malfoy had promised her. She wasn’t going to rely on his word. He teetered between that prat she knew so well and this oddly attentive….gentleman? Either way, his mercurial mood swings were just as dangerous as the bloodthirsty predators swarming this building.

She rifled through his writing desk and secured a beautifully ornate letter opener, sharp and glinting, the perfect weight in her hand. It was unclear if the blade was silver or steal, but it would cut through flesh all the same no matter whose skin it was. Now to hide it, keep it close for when the opportunity would present itself. Wearing joggers and a jersey gave her no room on her person, but it would be too obvious under one of his pillows-even if that was where he expected her to sleep.

It was then that she recalled her beaded bag. She grabbed it and started dumping out its contents, pleased when her spare tent popped out. Living outside in the elements for months on end had taught her to be more resourceful than she ever thought she already was. And she knew there’d be times they couldn’t rely on magic, and the weather could tear apart their shelter, so a spare was a must.

Then she set to work, assembling the tent in an open spot on his floor, staking her own territory within his own. He could deal with it. Once erected, she set up her pillow and sleeping bag inside and stashed the letter opener underneath. Then she poured out more items from the bag, books and general items just to clutter up his otherwise pristine room and make her territory look more fortified. It was a childish notion, but it helped her feel a slight bit better about herself. All the while she worked, she powered through tiny tremors and residual phantom pains from the crucio, diminished in both pain level and consistency. It was draining, forcing her body to not give into the seizures and instead exercised her limbs and appendages against the flow, taking back control in the small measures she could.

Another valid reason for not simply jumping out of the window and running for the hills.  
………………………….

Pre-Easter dinner was a sober occasion this year, as holidays had become since the Dark Lord took Malfoy Manor as his base of operations. Gone was any hint of a holiday, no decorations, festivities or guests of the social elite. True Easter Sunday was a week away, but given that this was the week Draco was on break from school, it had always been their tradition to celebrate it during that time. Only Death Eaters prowling about the property and scared house elves taking cover were their company for now. Wine was poured and the meal was served, faces a mask of indifference from the lady of the manor as she watched her sister smiled gleefully and toast to Draco for his most effective means of extracting information from their prisoner. Narcissa visibly winced and gripped her goblet tightly, not able to cast her eyes at her son.

The conversation traded back and forth on whether they could get to Weasley before he brought in a hoard of dragons, for surely those would be an asset in leveling any safehouse or city harboring members of the Order. Grimmauld place had already been scratched off their list, along with the Burrow, places they knew Potter had allies.  
“That useless sister of ours may have married a muggle but also given us a boon with her talented half-blood spawn.” Bellatrix went on. “Capturing her, Imperio’ing and making her change into form and lure out Order members? Brilliant.”

Narcissa tersely nodded.

Lucius, enjoying sitting at the head of the table-giving up that privilege when the Dark Lord dined with them-turned to his son. “Did she explain how they communicate with the Patronus?”

“No.” Draco said, his first word since sitting down to eat. He merely moved the food around but heavily indulged in a tumbler of firewhiskey.

“Get her to do so.” His father commanded.

He nodded along numbly, trying to ease the churning in his stomach. The food smelled delicious but was tasteless on his tongue when he chewed it. He partook enough to appease his mother, but she wasn’t even looking at him. She hadn’t met his eye since he came into the parlor and gave them all the information Granger divulged. He could feel her disappointment in him like a firm slap in the face. It was no stretch of the imagination that she did not approve of his “method” but they weren’t granted the privacy to speak freely.

He only felt worse, despite the pleased response from the others.

When the plates had been cleared away he turned to an elf and ordered a plate brought up for his guest, along with something to drink. The little creature nodded and immediately set to making a fine presentation, with Draco lurking over his shoulder. He shook his head and ordered more food to be piled on. She was too skinny, a little too bony. Satisfied that there wasn’t a food group left out, even with a little desert added in, and more than enough to compensate for a long day’s trouble he motioned for the elf to lead the way.

The others had retreated to the parlor for firewhiskey and more Death Eater business, Narcissa excusing herself and going to her chambers for the night. No one could say exactly what it was the woman was thinking, for she never had cared for their meetings anyways. Her saving grace was her neutrality, which could play in her favor or against her. Tonight though, she’d never been more thankful as she caught the opening cackle of delight from her sister, relishing the details of Draco subduing the Mudblood by binding her to the headboard. It was more than she needed to hear about her son, who had the weight of the world on his shoulders with cruel and grueling tasks set upon him by Lord Voldemort.

This war was turning everything that she cherished into something dark and twisted, driving her husband further into his devotion of the dark wizard just to save his own skin, and turning her only child into a criminal.

Opening his door, he had somewhat expected to see Granger sitting on his bed, maybe even the chair by the dresser with a book. Not in a bloody fucking tent in the corner of his room with a damn perimeter of books surrounding the entrance as if she’d built a wall to purposely keep him out. Pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head, he just didn’t have it in him to argue with her childish display.

A hot plate of food though, was a hard thing to ignore. And he heard her stomach gurgle in anticipation of a decent meal despite her petulant pout and hesitation to leave her little sanctuary. He kicked off his shoes and slumped into the padded chair, tumbler of whiskey in one hand, wand in the other.

“Whatever Granger.” He sighed, defeated and drained for the day. “Eat it or let it sit and grow cold. At least I brought you something.”

She crossed her arms and puffed her cheeks. Technically, he had an elf bring it in but that was just nitpicking semantics. Pretty sure no one else was going to consider her well-being down there, and sweet merciful Merlin it smelled heavenly. Was it wrong that she wanted it? That she could literally feel her glands salivating at an exponential rate in its presence? Did taking it indebt her further to him in some way?

“Did you expect the old bread and water bit? Watery stew and hard cheese?” he scoffed, sipping the amber liquid in the crystal cut glass. “You’re hardly at your natural weight as it is. I’m not risking further malnourishment on your part. Considering the intel I gave them seemed to alleviate their mood, they’ll probably insist you eat well in order to provide us with more.”

The steaming bun in her hand was as soft as a cloud and buttered to a golden crisp on top. Absolutely perfect. It alone nearly made her weep. One nibble of the yeasty treat and she was sold, plucking a leg of lamb and gnawing away, washing it down with a cup of surprisingly good dinner wine. He watched as she dove into the food with gusto, vicariously enjoying the food as it touched her lips and slid down her throat. Her lack of decorum went unbothered, considering she was sitting on the floor and propping the dinner tray up with a stack of books to create a makeshift table. The elf stood by, napkin draped over an arm and keeping his eye firmly trained on the silverware as instructed.  
She cleared the plate, nothing but bones and smears of sauce left. All three pieces of silverware accounted for, cup emptied, and guest well and truly satisfied, the little elf bid her adieu and apparated away with the tray. Content, warm, and belly fuller than it had been in weeks, she sighed and crawled back into the tent to lie down and rest. It didn’t take her long to fall into after-dinner drowsiness and sleep.

It still took Draco a full glass of firewhiskey and another Draught of Dreamless sleep before he could convince himself he was ready to rest.

But it was another fruitless attempt at a full night’s sleep, as it had been for weeks, and months, and all year long. It was just a few hours later, right around midnight when the thrashing began. He was all limbs and heavy breaths, fighting old nightmares and new, guilt eating away at his soul in the darkest of night. At first, Hermione thought it was the snarling breathing of the werewolf at the bedroom door, until she crawled out of the tent, armed with the letter opener and saw the writhing form of her classroom bully tossing about in his sheets.

A nightmare. A chance to overpower him and get her wand back…

Slowly, quietly, she tiptoed across the smooth wooden floor, pausing when she arrived on the carpet, her eyes adjusted to the dark, surveying the room. The wand must’ve been tucked under his pillow for she didn’t see it on the nightstand and knew he’d have it close by. Damn it. Mustering up her courage she got closer to the bed, knife in hand, wondering if she had the fortitude to stab a sleeping man. Defenseless, this was her opportunity. He tormented her all through school, he violated her, why hesitate? A hot bath and meal was little to nothing to make up for years of being on the end of his venomous attitude and abuse. Then again, he was just like her by being in a war they were too young to be involved in, forced to make difficult decisions, do things in which they’d never contemplate having to do on any given normal day. Their paths would’ve never crossed otherwise had their choices been their own.

Did he deserve death for what he’d done, just to stay afloat?

The blade wavered in her grip, her conscience wrestling with her sense of justice. Things were no longer black and white but a thousand shades of grey and the ambiguity of it all was unsettling. Had it been Antonin Dolohov she knew she wouldn’t have hesitated one second, his throat would be slashed and he’d be drowning in his blood by now. If it had been Greyback, the blade would be buried hilt deep into his rotten heart. But this was Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. A boy she’d known for six years, spoilt and brilliant. Few and far in between, she’d witnessed moments that made her question her assumptions of the aristocratic heir, convinced there was a ray of light hidden in those layers of darkness. As few as they’d been, she was now in his territory, his home, surrounded by his people on this side of the war, and none of them would let her leave this place alive, that she knew for certain.

Keeping the letter opener palmed in her right hand, she figured he’d keep her wand within reach of his right as well, which meant she’d have to lean over him in order to retrieve it. She watched as his body tossed again, he at some point having undone his buttons or didn’t bother to begin with, baring that pale white scarred skin of his chest that she ignored defiantly just hours before, but somehow couldn’t tear her eyes away from now. The tip of the blade pointed at the middle of it when his eyes opened and he lurched up from his pillows, gasping and panting before realizing a sharp cool point of metal was touching him.

A blink later, he understood the situation perfectly. She was going to kill him.

And why shouldn’t she? What right but her own to protect and avenge herself against him for what he had done? She hadn’t moved, but her eyes were uncertain. He knew he could take her hesitation in an instant, slip his hand under the pillow and pull her wand out on her, but why should he bother? Since she was odds with herself he made her decision for her, scooting over to his right so the blade now touched his left pectoral. “If you’re going to do it, don’t hesitate.” He stated flatly, devoid of fear. “Take a breath and ram it in, then twist so the wound doesn’t close. I’ll bleed out in a minute and you’ll be free.”

She’d been holding her breath until he spoke; now it came in short, quick bursts as she battled to steady herself. Was her hand trembling from fear or a residual crucio tremor? And why had he moved himself, told her how to go about it? He wasn’t reaching for the wand, his hands clearly visible. Was he pressing himself against the blade or had she pushed it in? A dark wet path began to trickle down where metal met flesh with a wince and hiss of breath from him.

Kill him! Just do it already! If there is one life in this world you have every right to snuff out, it is his and this is the time to do it!

It looked black in the pale illumination of the night sky, rather than the bright crimson she knew it actually was. Black and evil and filled with the darkness that resonated in his soul. In his family’s very name. If he bled enough perhaps it would take all the corruption along with it and leave him with some sort of soul to salvage. He’d already been branded for Hell with the mark of the dark wizard, a pawn in servitude to the black king.

Everything she’d ever thought about him came to a grinding halt. Every insult and tease, every jinx and hex and attempt at sabotage, every lie and rumor and nasty look, and the eyes that stared up at her in a plea clashed together in a grey mess that she could no longer pluck apart the black and white components. It wasn’t exactly puppy eyes, but they were honest eyes. He was going to let her do this, if she so chose. He was giving her this moment of retribution, to balance the scales and put an end to it all, all she had to do was just push that blade in, like he’d pushed into her and ruined her future.

Eye for an eye. Blood for blood.

But she couldn’t. She wasn’t a killer. There was nothing stopping her, and that was the most terrifying part of it. That she could, and no one would know til morning. And she'd be on the run for the rest of her life, if she was lucky to get far enough away to live one. Not taking his life though, meant she was still enslaved and subject to his whims or the orders of the others. All she was doing was just bringing herself more pain and humiliation, damning herself while keeping her soul clean. But what use was a clean soul with a defiled body and broken heart?

Either way, she had already lost.

“I can’t.” she whispered, conceding defeat and expecting the darkest of curses to be hurled her way once she lowered the letter opener.

He couldn’t say what compelled him to be stupid enough to push himself against the blade at his chest, but it served as a stark reminder to never underestimate Granger again. Clearly, he’d forgotten to sweep his room for potential weapons she could use against him, focusing too much on the obvious knife to go with the dinner plate he procured for her. The nightmare had been all too real and violent; reminding him of things he’d done and couldn’t change. Having her end his life would be the blessing he’d been wishing on for months, just to put a halt to it all. Rather no life than this current one.

Perhaps the next one would be better.

But he could see it in her eyes, dark and hurt, confused and thinking. Mulling over her choices and finding no safe solution from either path. Her life relied upon his, with him dead there was no guarantee of safe or fair treatment and she knew it. Alive, although he could and would probably have to abuse her again, she would at least be better off. Something salvageable once the smoke cleared and the blood stopped flowing. Still human at least.

Her whispered confession broke his heart; part of him had wanted death. No better avenging angel to deliver it. But her conscience was too strong to ignore, her moral compass too rigid, and his pathetic heart continued to beat. No dagger to the chest tonight. If not now, then ever? The one and only opportunity she might ever have, flitted by on silent owl wings and left him feeling cold all over.

The clattering of the blade as it hit the wooden floor broke the spell of silence between them, her gasping and backing away, him blinking and exhaling as if he’d been punched in the gut. She immediately ran for her tent and while a weak and flimsy shelter it was, at least it was hers. He pulled her wand out and cast Lumos, marching to his bathroom to tend to the minor but profusely bleeding gash into his muscle. After enduring rounds of crucio and stinging jinxes, lightning and fire, ice and boils and slashing hexes, this little cut paled in comparison. He thought nothing could hurt worse than the Cruciatus until he’d seen those eyes look upon him. It hit straight into his soul. What was left of it anyways.

A little healing and the skin started fusing back together, warm and tingling as the magic accelerated the process. He’d walk away with yet another scar, a thin little one by comparison to the Sectumsempra but one that cut him far deeper. At least this one he had deserved. He could hear her muffled crying from across the room, digging into his ears and traveling down his spine, beating in time with his heart. If there was a thing he never wanted to hear it would be this. He could handle her screams, her fiery retorts and sharp tongued insults and even slaps, but not this. Her tears would be his undoing. She hadn’t even cried after he’d…well, after his treatment of her earlier and had to applaud her strength for it. But now, after his life was literally in her hands and she couldn’t kill him, he saw himself in her now, up in the tower, wand at Dumbledore with the man practically opening his arms and still unable to follow through.

This blasted war was trying to make monsters out of the innocent.

The sound of his feet padding softly across carpet, then wood, and stopping right outside the polyester barrier of her tent froze her blood and nearly put her into cardiac arrest with how it had sped to a thunderous pace before stopping completely. Oh god, here it comes. She shut her eyes and just prayed. Let it be swift.

He squatted down on his haunches and unzipped the opening, finding her curled in the corner immediately off to his right rather than far opposite like he imagined she’d be, knees up to her chest, hands clasped around each shin and eyes squinted closed, bracing for whatever punishment she expected of him.

“No more bloodshed tonight?” he offered up neutrally, earning him popped open eyes and a gaping mouth. When he stuck out his hand she flinched and recoiled just an inch further away from him before looking at his hand like it has just transformed into a cobra. He just kept it there, a silent offering that she eventually gave into. The moment her hand was in his, he trailed a thumb over the top and gently pulled. He felt her initial resistance that ebbed away into numb compliance, resigning herself to his lead despite all her instincts screaming at her to run away.

He held onto that hand as she eventually crawled out of the tent and stood, lips wedged firmly between her teeth and eyes cast at the floor. When he let go of her hand, he brought it to her chin, lifting upwards so their eyes would meet. She was shaking, but didn’t pull away. He didn’t know what to say. The look in her eyes held an apology only due to the failure to complete her goal and what she’d endure because of it. And he had no intentions of punishing her for acting out in the most natural of ways.  
All he wanted was to get some sleep and put this terrible day to rest, bury it in the ground and never look back on it again, impossible as he knew that would be.

“Come on.” He whispered, motioning to her with her left hand, commanding the collar to obey as he turned around and started walking back towards his bed, her steps falling rhythm behind his, albeit reluctantly. He pulled back the covers evenly then turned around to her.

“Please don’t.” she begged.

“I’m not going to. I’m too tired of fighting. Just don’t leave.” He said, walking around the length of the bed and taking his side. This time, the wand was placed on the nightstand, on his left side, far from her as he slid in under the covers. Nervously, she followed suit, wondering why he was inviting her to his bed if he had no intentions to hurt her. When she slid in she remained on the edge, lasting a total few seconds before he reached over and pulled her further into the middle, and up against his chest.

She scrunched up, hands immediately meeting together, palms out towards him to push him away, freezing up when he brought the blanket up and around her form so that it covered her backside. His right arm was tucked under her pillow and the left draped across her middle in a possessive hold.

“No witch of mine sleeps on the floor.” He said quietly, his chin grazing across the top of her head with each word.

She wanted to immediately snap back with her proclamation of independence but it died on her tongue, for she too, was tired of fighting. Her hands wavered as she tried figuring out what to do with them, turning her wrists and trying to flex her arms a little so she could cross them over herself but when he refused to move his arm to allow such movement, she was left with no other option than to rest them against his chest.

Weirdly, he flinched at her touch, despite the fact that he had her pulled up against him with no room for another limb. He was warm to the touch, even under the buttoned up sleeping shirt. Warm-bloodied and human, clinging onto one last thread of hope for peace like she was. Perhaps the only peace they would know, hidden away in the dark with unsaid words and unanswered questions.  
………………………….


	5. Abused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione’s first official day as prisoner goes about as splendidly as one would expect with humiliation, interrogation, a beating, an escape attempt, more assault, and Legilimency used without her consent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *TRIGGER* for the violence and further mistreatment of Miss Hermione Granger but she doesn't go down without a fight  
> This chapter now includes artwork.

Sunday April 5th, 1998

Moonlight faded into nothingness with the rising sun. No nightmares ran rampant, no tremors tore through aching limbs. A bed where a crime had taken place hours ago had become the neutral no-man’s land where a captor and captive slept in each other’s arms. It was the first time either had ever spent a night in the close proximity of another’s warmth, a feeling completely alien and comforting like it was the most neutral thing in the world.

With a hard chest and heavy arm draped around her, Hermione imagined she’d feel trapped, captured all over again and stripped of her freedom. Instead there was an odd sense of security, dare even protection that seemed to radiate from the sleeping form beside her. How was that even possible? And from him of all people?

Having a soft and pliable body flush against him, an arm encircled around the smaller form, Draco wondered how a person ever slept soundly when alone. Oh sure, having her there meant she couldn’t try any further theatrics, but feeling a heartbeat in rhythm to his own had been soothing in a way that didn’t make sense.

So they lay there, each awake, each pretending to be asleep, each reveling in the odd sensation of being so close to someone they’d never have imagined to provide a comfort. Some sort of unspoken treaty had been signed when she joined his bed and he pulled her close, confessing they both were too tired to continue the fight. It didn’t feel like a magical bond had been formed, but there was a bond, and there was a magicesque sensation tingling within their blood, new and unexplained. It was fragile, like the silken threads of a spider’s web and could be unraveled in an instant with one wrong move, one stray look, or one word that broke the serenity.

At some point, they realized the other was awake but playing the same game. Staying silent and pretending everything was alright. But bodies and breathing change once roused from slumber, and now instead of relaxed they were tense and breathing robotically rather than in natural, somewhat uneven patterns. A hand moved, softly grazing along someone’s back, small miniscule little patterns in tentative curiosity. It was the white flag signaling to her that he was awake and meant no harm. She buried her face into his chest, lingering in the scent of his pajama shirt and the remnants of firewhiskey he consumed the night before. Her flag waving to let him now that she wasn’t going to strike him and scream the moment he let her go.

But what to say to each other? They were not lovers basking the glow of affection. If anything, they were using each other to take solace of how their worlds had come to a crashing halt, changing everything. In the light of day, they now were enemies once again, wrapped in the arms of their foe. Neither had the courage to speak first, praying to their respective deities that a third party would serve as the ice breaker and force them to separate, for neither seemed capable of doing it of their own accord.  
Just as it seemed that they would angle their faces towards each other, actually have to look each other in the eye and acknowledge the other, the moment ended before it could begin with a crisp pattern of strong knocking at his door, erupting in waves in the silence, startling the two and shattering their peace. They immediately pulled away from each other, Draco quickly leaping off the bed as Hermione ducked under the covers.

The door opened before he had the chance to approach it, finding himself face to face with his mother and a pair of house elves carrying an assortment of clothing. She strolled in, hair wrapped in a perfect braid down her back, robes pressed and pristine and looking like she’d been awake with the dawn. Her steps were controlled and perfectly timed with the elves as they set the clothing bundles on the bench at the foot of the bed and she continued around to the right side, grabbing the edge of the blanket and flinging it back.

Hermione squeaked and shrank further into a ball, covering her face at first until she realized she wasn’t being hexed. It was certainly a shock, having the lady of the house be glaring down at her and then at her son. “Out.” She commanded of him to both their surprise.

It took him a second to register in his grogginess. “What?”

Looking back down at the terrified witch in his bed, Narcissa spoke again, practically hissing the order for him to leave his own bedroom. He blinked a few times, then grabbed his discarded clothing from yesterday and bolted from the room like a kicked dog. Now it was just the two women and elves, in a room rife with tension.

“I’m sorry.” Hermione immediately said for whatever infraction that was more than likely her fault in their eyes despite having never left his room since being brought in.

“For what?” Narcissa inquired, cocking her head to the side and taking in the girl’s thin form in baggy clothing.

“I-I don’t even know…” she confessed. Surely this woman would blame her for tainting their pure bloodline?

“Did you offer yourself up to him?” the woman asked simply. “Or did he just take what he wanted?”

The brunette’s mouth hung open. Unexpected to say the least, the question rendered her speechless for a moment. But thinking on it, the answer was to neither question. Her cheeks still flushed from horrid embarrassment.

“I am not here to shame you. But I need the truth. I did not raise him to be this way.”

Hermione’s eyes watered as she brought a hand up to her mouth, trying to regain some composure. “He…he said….they were watching….expecting it…He apologized.” Her gaze darted off to the side. “I….went along…”

Relief exhaled from the witch as she took a seat on the side of the bed. “Goodness child, I am sorry you had to endure that. No witch deserves that. You do possess great strength.”

“T-thank y-you.” The girl stuttered, still unable to meet her eye.

“Well, onto business.” Narcissa said, wiping at her eye. “Amber, Opal, please.” She said, holding out her hand. One of the elves, notably female Hermione took stock of, placed a green garment in her hand. The woman then motioned to her to undress.

Oh goodness….

“Miss Granger, I can clearly see the one on your neck.” She said in a droll voice. “Wherever else they may or may not be seen is of little concern, depending on location, although this will leave little to the imagination.”

“Then why have me wear it?”

But the mother did not answer, motioning again for the removal of her son’s jersey. Well, there were worst people to undress for. With hesitation and a heavy breath, she lifted the hem and brought it up, her scar earning her a perfectly timed gasp once it past her breasts and slipped off her head. Hermione figured she should get used to that reaction. Her hands naturally came up to cover the offending mark.

“That is an old wound.” Narcissa stated neutrally, passing over the bralette for the girl to put on.

“It happened almost two years ago. June 18th ‘96.” She answered, watching the woman’s face as she registered the importance of that date. What it signified on both sides.

Sirius Black having died at the hands of Bellatrix.

Lucius failed to retrieve the prophecy Voldemort ordered of him.

Voldemort’s return was made public after being seen by Corneilus Fudge himself.

It led to the arrest of all but one of the Death Eaters sent that night, the Ministry finally taking action, and the official start of the war.

“You were there…” she said in awe. Course she heard Potter was there, along with a handful of other students, the names weren’t specified.

“I was.” Hermione concurred, slipping the forest green halter top on. It merely covered her breasts and a little skin along her ribs. She prayed there would be something to go over it.

“Whom did you face off with?” she asked, dread settling in her stomach.

Hermione whished out a little snort. “Technically all of them, but it was Dolohov who got me after I silenced him.”

Silencing and still left with the explosive scar tissue meant that she barely scraped by with her life, diminishing whatever curse he hurled at her just enough. Narcissa knew he was a powerful wizard, quick in a duel and ruthless. For a then sixteen year old girl to have survived spoke to her level of skill as a witch. For a moment she looked at the girl, just one of whom had bravely faced off a dozen Death Eaters and walked away mainly unscathed. The children at the school were taking this war seriously-as they should be-and proving to be worthy adversaries.

Given the skirmish that tore apart her drawing room, she was lucky any of them hadn’t been maimed or killed. The fighting conditions weren’t ideal, but had the boys been slightly more inclined on revenge than escape she might very well be a widow right now. Perhaps her son had the right idea, keeping such a strong member of the Order’s witches under their roof. Her loss to their side would certainly diminish their fighting power.

She straightened her spine and handed over the pair of bottoms, a billowy and loose legged style of pantaloons split up the side from ankle to hip to reveal her skin, offering no place to secure a weapon or wand on her person. “As property of my son, while under this roof, you will have only the protection he warrants. But I’d do well to steer clear of any of them in the meantime.”

“I planned to.”

“Put these on. It’s all one piece, knickers as well as trousers.”

Hermione felt her hope deflate as she held up the flimsy garment. This was pair of belly dancer bottoms! It provided no protection whatsoever! They might as well hand her a tambourine and order her to dance while they were at it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I am not.” The matriarch stiffly replied. “Nor am I entirely comfortable with the idea of you wearing something like this. You’re lucky you’ve been given anything to wear at all.”  
“Why couldn’t I just stick to what I had?”

Narcissa turned her head aside so that Hermione could slip out of the dull grey joggers and don the custom made bedlah. It was mortifying, having to parade in something like this and she doubted she’d ever look at belly dancers or even the character of princess Jasmine the same way again. Amber, the house elf with bright eyes to match her name picked up her discarded sleepwear.

“I at least get those back right?” she pleaded, pointing to the unsightly pants that were one of her few possessions left. Narcissa sighed, turning to her servant and telling her to launder the things and return them promptly once they finished. She offered her sincere thanks to the woman.

“Don’t thank me just yet.” She warned. “Come along.” She motioned with a graceful sweep of her arm as the elves held open the door. If she had seen the tent pitched in the corner she made no mention of it. And although she did not possess the cuff to command the choker around her neck, she obeyed thoroughly. It would do her no good to start the day off at odds with perhaps her sole ally. Her hands hugged her upper arms as she followed the woman, staying as close as possible without stepping on her robes.

She wasn’t sure where the other occupants were, but they miraculously passed by unobserved from any Death Eaters, Snatchers, or just overall supporters of the Dark Lord. In the morning light, the manor was less oppressive but still looming in its grandeur with ornate furniture, artwork, pieces of art like statues and vases and detailed tapestries, soft under her bare feet. She took more of an observational glance than a recreational. This was no tour, no leisurely stroll through the manor on a spring afternoon. She was being led somewhere. Trying to calculate the square footage from what she had seen alone already had her figuring this ancestral home was more akin to a museum, there were too many hallways and at least three story’s that she’d ascertained while being dragged to the front gate, not including any possible attic or basement, besides the dungeon Harry and Ron had been taken to. It would behoove her to play along and gradually learn the layout rather than running.

Narcissa came to a stop, opening a set of double doors and motioning for her to enter first. Nervously, Hermione complied, stepping in and gasping from utter shock.

It was the Malfoy library.

Enchanting in the morning light, curtains drawn back and golden rays beaming in, illuminating tome after tome, more than she could even take a gander at guessing, shelf after shelf going on and on, up and up as she craned her neck and sharply inhaled at the sight of the tower, just winding up into the heavens. She was so enthralled that she doesn’t notice the matriarch step in beside her, closing the door behind and giving a little throat clearing for attention.

When that didn’t work she felt her arm pulled and practically fell over her own feet, still unable to pry her eyes off the magnificent sight. It was like seeing an oasis in the desert, the light in an otherwise dark tunnel. If Malfoy Manor was her own personal Hell, then their library was her little glimpse of Heaven. With any hope she dare not voice she prayed she’d be able to enjoy this room for what it was.

It wasn’t until she literally bumped into the table that she had even noticed the Malfoy sire and heir, only one of them glaring at her with a mixture of disdain and indescribable interest in what he saw, the other unable to meet her eye just yet. Pulling her glance away from the men she noticed there was a map on the table Narcissa dragged her to, marked in places that seemed nonsequential until she realized the landmarks.

They were marking placed where Death Eaters had already struck, or planned to. Newly marked were Grimmauld Place and The Burrow. Places that she hadn’t seen but heard about over the wireless in the broadcast that drove them all to madness each time they listened, hearing the names of the deceased. The place in the Forest of Dean where the Snatchers had found them was marked as well. They were being quite thorough. None of these places would be safe to return to.

“Where else did you have Order meetings?” Lucius demanded at her.

“………” her mouth opened but nothing came out. There were so few places left and she couldn’t give up Shell Cottage.

Growing impatient with her hesitant silence, he snapped his fingers at Draco, motioning for him to deal with his prisoner. He was leaning heavily on his hands, braced at the corners of the table and had his head turned away from her, the reluctance to even acknowledge her twisting in her gut. When he pushed himself away from the table and stood to his full height she felt herself shiver. When he finally looked at her she felt like he’d Avada’d her on the spot with the darkest scowl he could muster, coldness sweeping off him in waves that she could practically feel. All it took was one step and she was shaking, protesting that she knew of no other location because there hadn’t been time enough to set up another.

“I swear! It was the only place we had access to! We couldn’t risk having another location!” she swore, hands up as he glowered at her, closing the distance between them.  
“Where else have you been?” Lucius barked. “Where have you taken refuge?”

Draco’s hand clasped her upper arm as her knees shook. Lucius may have thought it was his tone and dominating presence that terrified her but he would be dead wrong. The only thing she feared in this magnificent room was the one before her, gripping bruises into her flesh for an answer. His eyes terrified her, looking black and soulless. What happened to him?

Her eyes darted briefly to Narcissa, the woman who had said ‘Don’t thank me just yet.’ and perhaps this was why. She knew they’d interrogate her.  
Draco dug his thumbnail in, causing her to wince and twist herself in reflex. His nail was sharp, neatly trimmed but not so evenly round that she couldn’t feel the apex cut into her skin and draw blood. Incredible how such a small touch could bring about this amount of pain when she’d faced off with hexes and curses throughout her magical education.

“G-god! God-dric’s H-hollow!” she wailed, her arm burning in agony.

“What’s at Godric’s Hollow that you needed?”

This time, she answered immediately. “Nothing! It was where Harry’s parents lived. He…he wanted to visit their grave.”

Draco’s hand immediately pulled back from her arm as if scalded. She clutched it, holding in her cries so that only the barest whimper escaped her lips. Lucius marked Godric’s Hollow and her stomach plummeted. She just prayed that nothing happened to the guys that would make them think they needed to return. They had to keep striving forward, find the rest of the Horcruxes or Hallows and destroy them.

“Sentimental foolish child…” Lucius muttered, glancing down at the space he marked. “That’ll do for now.” He waved dismissively. “Go eat.”

Ah yes, nothing better to start off the day than with some more torture before having a hearty meal, she thought dryly as she followed after Draco who left his parents without a word, arms crossed and tightly gripping his own biceps. At least he wasn’t dragging her out by her hair, though given his emotionless demeanor she figured he wouldn’t even register the suggestion.

So here was a third aspect of the Malfoy persona, cold and emotionally shut down, like a robot. In her research and relentless pursuit of knowledge she had a pretty good guess that this was due to him occluding, locking away emotions and memories and erecting walls to fight against Legilimency. A side-effect of heavy use of this practice often left people with unexpected emotional outbursts, loss of memories, a change in personality or even the inability to feel emotions as they once used to. It was a dangerous practice, and she was seeing why. She could take the snarky, argumentative Malfoy any day of the week, and hell even the oddly polite and concerned one but this? This was someone capable of hurting her without remorse.

She followed in silence, cradling her arm like a lifeline. The bedlah was going to showcase every bruise and cut and mark left on her, reminding her that her own body didn’t belong to her anymore. By the time they reached the kitchen her stomach growled in protest in contrary to her believing she couldn’t muster the urge to eat. It didn’t even surprise her that in this impressive mansion with all its many rooms and what size dining table they must own that there was a little personal table for two, with a seat for both her and Draco.

Ah yes, mustn’t sully their antique, expensive, rare wooden specimen of a dining table that was probably hand-carved by weeping house elves a century ago with my presence…  
“Sit.” He ordered. Like she needed to be told.

But she did, it was far too early for more of this. When she sat an elf brought her a plate, laden with all the usual British breakfast favorites, supplying her with a glass of milk and offering coffee. She gladly accepted. Several bites in she noticed a certain someone hadn’t joined her, rooted in the spot he was at, leaning against the wall.

“Are you going to just watch me?”

All he did was bounce his eyebrows at her in a sarcastic move that could only be read as “duh”.

She sipped her coffee. “It makes me feel weird when you do that. Why aren’t you eating?”

“Not much of an appetite.” He grumbled.

Briefly, she wondered if he had merely given her his own plate the evening prior. Two more bites and she sighed. “At least sit. Or is dining with a Mudblood beneath you too?”

“You want me even closer?” he asked, surprise evident in his voice.

Ah, well when put that way…No, not really. But maybe if he sat, he might be inclined to eat as well. As if it really mattered.

“You’re the one who insisted on keeping me…” she shrugged, putting the ball in his court. Frankly, company was company and she’d always been a socially motivated person.

“Yeah, well…I figured you wouldn’t want that…”

“Normally, no.” she answered. “But like you said, I’m better off with you.”

“None of those pricks would even enter their own kitchens, let alone ours. I doubt any of them would charge in here to curse you.”

Given however true that might be it still wasn’t the point. If he wanted to be bull-headed and brood then let him. She wasn’t going to let her breakfast go to waste. So she ate, and he watched. She drank her coffee, he watched. She thanked the elf that served her and sighed, not wanting to leave the warm room and the security it provided.

Something niggled at the back of her mind. It was Easter Hols. Which meant he was home from school. What happened when the school break came to an end? Was he supposed to take her back with him? Would he leave her here? And if he did, what would happen to her? Her stomach turned with possible outcomes any of these presented themselves. Granted the school would be a more preferred place, certain that another Horcrux was hidden there, but she’d heard of the Muggleborn Registry, the murders of parents who had a muggleborn child. She was hardly any safer there than she was here.

“What are you contemplating now?” he said, snapping her from her thoughts.

She glanced up at him. “What’s going to happen when the holiday is over?” she answered his question with her own. “Are you smuggling me back into the school?”

“So the Carrows can kill you on sight?” he scoffed. “I think not. I’ll just owl Snape and let him know I’m not returning.”

What? There was so much in that sentence that begged for her to scream out that retort.

“But…what of your classes?” she asked. To her honest to goodness surprise he laughed. A genuine laugh.

“Oh Granger. Ever the swot. You’ve been traipsing through the countryside for nearly a year and you’re worried about ME not going to school?” He released more chuckles, holding his sides as he leaned against the wall. “As if I have anything to worry about.”

“What does that mean?”

He pushed off the wall and finally slid into the vacant chair. “Do you know what a day at Hogwarts consist of now?” Obviously she did not, and he knew it, leaning in and spoke in a voice dripping with acid. “Oh let’s see, there’s Alecto taking over muggle studies just to lecture about how useless they are to wizarding kind. There’s always a bunk filled in the infirmary due to all the Crucio’s the students are told to practice on each other. Plenty of them have gone missing, not sure where they’re running off to but it would seem Longbottom’s finally grown balls and continually defies the professors and has had more broken bones than I can keep track of. And he’s a pureblood of the Sacred 28. So tell me, how do you think you’d fair at a school delegating only towards pure and half-bloods?”

Anger and pity washed over her at this revelation. While she knew it wasn’t an ideal place to be she had no idea it was that devastating. Suddenly her Horcrux hunt and struggling against the elements didn’t seem as bad. Who knew how many of her friends were sane, let alone alive? Would there even be a school left if this continued?

“So while you remain as my personal pet I will not be returning to the school.”

She blinked in rapid succession at him. He was refraining from returning to the school, to ensure that no one here did anything to her in his absence.

“Ah.” Was all she could muster. “And while I’m here…I’m to supply you with information on the Order.”

“That was the deal.”

“I would’ve told you….something….was it really necess-”

“Yes.” He cut her off darkly. If he hadn’t Bellatrix was going to break down his door and allow any number of Death Eaters in there to have at her. She admitted to nearly giving the order, and Greyback was first in line. Now that she’d been properly claimed by him, no other man-or werewolf-was allowed to touch her.

At least physically.

His cold tone was enough to signify the end of the conversation, if not the subject. He pushed up from the table, she followed a beat behind. With her meal eaten there was no further reason to be here. He didn’t have a plan just yet but he’d come up with something to occupy their time. It couldn’t just be all torture and demands, not if she was going to be of some use. Something substantial. It needed to be bigger than Order locations and members-some that were already dead now. He’d figure it out, he just needed time to think-

“Draco!” a high pitch screech ripped through the air. “Where’s that little bitch?”

They both froze at the shrill tone and looked at each other. What could’ve happened this bloody early?

“Bring her out here!” Bellatrix screamed, followed by a crash of something hitting the floor and Narcissa letting out an annoyed cry.

“W-what…what are you goi-”

“I have to.” He answered. When he reached for her arm she flinched back, and shook her head. The bruise he’d left her with not twenty minutes earlier had colored significantly.  
“I’ll go. You don’t have to bloody well drag me.” She flung her hair off her shoulder and stormed past him, ready to face the crazed witch head on. His hand came up behind her though, encircling her neck in possessive grip that did not relent when she squirmed. He marched out of the kitchen and into the dining room where his mother and aunt were squabbling over broken porcelain until the dark haired one caught sight of her quarry.

“That little cunt lied to me!” she spat, pointing a wand in her direction with Narcissa clinging to her other arm, making pleas to not destroy her home further.

“What’d she lie about?” Draco asked tersely, gripping Hermione tight and close to him. He could’ve sworn he saw nothing but the truth in her eyes the day before.

“My. Vault!” the woman declared vehemently, eyes wide with fury.

“I’ve never even been to Gringott’s!” Hermione defensively retorted, glaring at her torturer.

“You dare continue lying to me face?”

“Bellatrix, enough of this! She’s been here the entire night.” Narcissa insisted, shrugged off by her manic sister.

Draco pulled Hermione to his side as he tried being rational to his aunt. It was then that Hermione felt the familiar pulse and shape of her wand, right in his pocket, where her hand was. As the woman went on with some wild story about how someone masqueraded as her and entered the vault, activating her trap spell and freed her dragon, and now both the sword and the cup were gone. A ripple of hope surged through her, knowing Harry and Ron must’ve somehow acquired one her hairs in the skirmish as they escaped and polyjuiced their way in.

It didn’t matter what intel she’d already given up, the woman was stark raving mad at the loss of her property and was out for blood. Well, if that’s what she wanted, she was about to get it.

Hermione slipped her hand into his pocket and extracted her wand, shouting out an Expelliarmus, succinctly knocking the bent dark wood from her hands and pulled out of Draco’s loosened grip in his moment of surprise. Good to know the collar didn’t inhibit her ability to cast magic, she thought as she was following through with another spell when the woman launched herself at her, hands going for her throat.

Verbally incapacitated, Hermione landed her signature nose breaking punch to Bellatrix’s face as Narcissa and Draco tried pulling her off. The woman howled like a banshee and reared back, giving her room to scramble backwards and retreat back into the kitchen to regroup. Draco was immediately on her heels, and caught her quickly, trying to wrestle her wand back from her when Bellatrix stormed in, face bleeding and grinning like she was about to win at a game of tag.

“Step away Drakey, let me finish her off.”

“No aunt Bella,” he grunted as he dug his fingernails into Hermione’s hand in an attempt to make her let go. She had a death grip and then sank her teeth into his hand.  
"Fucking hell!” he cried, pulling the hand back and shaking it. In a surprise reflex, his other hand came up and whipped across her face, knocking her off her feet and against a set of cabinets.

The wand clattered to the floor as she cracked against the wood, splintering the little door. Draco quickly secured the wand but stood in the middle ground between the witches. “I’ll deal with her.”

“You’ve had your fun with the slag, now it’s time to put an end to her.” His aunt stated, arm poised and ready to strike with the Avada.

“I’ve barely begun my “fun” with her.” He sneered, gripping the stolen vinewood in his palm. “And I’ll dispose of her when I’ve grown exhausted of that. If anything, I’m more inclined to prolong her suffering just for this infraction.”

“She and her little fucking friends were in my vault Draco! Don’t you see? They’re onto the Dark Lord’s secret. She’s too dangerous to be left alive.”

“Bella, if she knows then we can extract that information from her and see what their next move is.” Narcissa stated wisely, providing a voice of reason. “And you know what can happen to the mind if it endures too much of the Cruciatus. We can’t use that on her if everything is scrambled.”

Bellatrix finally took a breath in what felt like forever. As she wiped the blood that dribbled down her nose and across her lips and chin she seemed to take her sisters’ word into consideration. “A more ‘physical’ approach then.” She gleamed.

Narcissa barely repressed a shudder; thankfully, Bellatrix was too focused on her nephew and his little slave to notice. “Whatever means necessary.” She said, looking sick. “Just take it elsewhere.”

Bellatrix’s heels clicked sharply as she strolled up the girl on the floor, grabbing her throat one last time as she bent low. “The Dark Lord won’t be so forgiving.” she vowed.

“Fuck you.” Hermione seethed, meeting her eyes head-on and unwavering. Let them kill her, she wasn’t going to give them anything that could be traced back to Harry.

“No dearie, that’s his job.” The Death Eater grinned. “I hope he breaks you.”

“Come Bella; let’s leave him to it then.” Lady Malfoy said, shooting her son a narrowed glance that conveyed a silent message only the two could know, but had Hermione wondering just what it could be. Her only regret as the matriarch lulled the madwoman away was that she hadn’t gotten in a decent debilitating hex, knowing anyone else would’ve killed her outright.

Having retrieved the wand back from her, he felt it radiate with her magic, her anger and pulse in his hand. Watching her face off with his aunt had been a brief, but terrifying and exciting to behold. Even without her wand she was in the Death Eater’s face, eyes burning with determination. Here was the warrior that had earned that scar and who would earn more before her life was through. Oddly enough he wondered what it would take to break her. He detached himself from such thoughts as he started to occlude again, putting that curiosity and small hint of admiration away in a box in his mind. Away, just like the thoughts of last night when she was an avenging angel and in the morning when she was a temptation he wanted to explore.

He had to be emotionally detached.

Reaching down, he took her arm roughly and yanked her to her feet, then wordlessly force-marched her out of the kitchen and into the nearest empty room, a parlor of sorts she guessed for it only contained a small seating arrangement and art. Just another room filled with needless things to show off one’s wealth. Not that she was taking stock of much when he slammed her against the door, closing it and following with a locking spell.

“Reckless, idiotic Gryffindor, thinking you can win every fight.” He snarled at her, lifting her to meet his hardening length, finding the absolute perfect juncture before grabbing one wrist and holding it above her head, applying it with a quickly cast sticking charm. As his body smashed hers against the door to brace her in place he secured her other wrist in the same manner. “Now let’s see you try to escape this.”

She had no intention of that useless action, seeing his occluded eyes and understanding that he was detaching himself from this. It was an odd comfort. Knowing he was reluctant to go through with it was the only thing that made it bearable. At least it gave her the freedom to hurl insult after insult at his ego, his stupid inbred family, his deranged maniac of a dark lord, and his failures to appease him. In return he racked his nails down her body into thin red ribbons that were near bleeding and called her every filthy name he could of, nothing she hadn’t heard before. He grabbed her throat and bit her lip just to watch it bleed, spilling crimson drops upon her green halter top.

“I was too gentle with you yesterday.” He growled as he waved her wand over the harem pants, vanishing them off her and onto the floor. “Thinking I couldn’t get it up for a Mudblood, but hearing you scream will far outweigh my disgust.”

“You couldn’t get it up without having to tie me down.” She snapped, trying to read his eyes. “You’re pathetic.”

There was beat of silence between them, just enough for a breath and a heartbeat. “Remember what I told you yesterday.” He said. If it was a warning, she didn’t have time to register when he slammed into her, ramming his member in, hard and so quick she felt it in her throat as her head banged against the wooden panel and cried.

Every thrust of his was met with a jarring of the door, a cry or grunt or shocked gasp from her mouth as the walls echoed with the assault. Was this any better than round after round of the Cruciatus? She was degraded either way. The only thing she had to fight with was her words. So she used them.

“Nothing…But…A…Ferret…” she heaved between breaths, trying to ignore the spasming of her walls around him and the jolt of pleasure that snuck up her nervous system, building up into what she knew was evident but doing everything possible to not give in. It felt wrong that one should still achieve this with what was happening. She hated how it felt when he bit her, clamping skin between his teeth and sinking in, groaning like a beast, flicking his tongue across her throat once again just to feel that pulse point throb as her breath hitched, for it went against everything how it should’ve felt and had her secretly enjoying it.

When she came she curled around him tightly, her legs purposely wrapping around his waist and squeezing uncontrollably, her voice going raw with a wail that sounded like the very life was leaving her body. Everything was trembling and thrumming with endorphins and magic, eyes blinded by lights so badly they wept as she tried to gather her senses. Her body hung limply off the door, falling loosely into him when he undid the sticking charms and carefully set her to the floor. She barely registered his touch, the floor, or the tablecloth he summoned off the side table from some corner in the room as he covered her with it.

As she took in breath after breath, feeling the blood rush in her ears, he readjusted himself into his clothing, then leaned over her. She was vaguely aware of a hand taking her chin and forcing her to look at a pair of stormy grey eyes before she felt a presence in her mind, knowing he was using Legilimens on her to find what he wanted. There was no more strength in her to fight, let alone try to protect what he was looking for. All she could do was bring up memories of him throughout their years, ever since the first day and his haughty attitude towards Harry and Ron before they were even sorted, them quarreling in the courtyard when it was revealed he was Slytherin’s newest Seeker and him calling her a Mudblood for the first time. She remembered when he fell off his broom, when Moody turned him into a ferret, when he looked defeated and worn in sixth year, before the duel in bathroom and after. Everything she could recall of him in his nastiest moments and when they would get the better of him. If he was going to see anything, it would be how he presented himself for the last six years.

“Fucking stop that.” He ordered, taking hold of her face. “Just let me find what I need.”

The memories flickered and blurred, with him catching moments of them in the tent, Harry bent over the map, Ron hugging the wireless with tears of relief, and her with her books and notes on Tom Riddle and the Horcruxes.

His eyes widened.

She shut the memory down, blackening out the scene, feeling him fight to pry it back open and eventually landing at the moment where the locket became too much and Ron abandoned them. Tears were pooling in her eyes, reliving this terrible night as it revealed that dear Ronald wasn’t as reliable as she and Harry had believed him to be. First year on the chessboard was different from this, when they’d already loved and lost and witnessed death.

“That wanker…” Draco whispered to himself with a little shake of his head. He always knew Weasley was a coward, never suited for Gryffindor. He wasn’t anything like his older brothers, but the Hat tended to keep families in the same for the sake of tradition. Another Weasley eh, off to Gryffindor with you.

Hermione tried a new tactic, bringing up a pleasant memory, hoping it would disgust him enough to retreat. She thought of Yule, dancing with Krum, drinking punch and laughing with friends, and a sweet kiss under the mistletoe with the Bulgarian Seeker, watching as Draco winced and his lip curl at the sight of, then quickly switched over to Bill and Fleur’s wedding, where an even older and far more polished looking Krum-with improved English-asked her to dance again.

Draco pulled out of her mind, conceding defeat at the onslaught of the mental catalog. He hadn’t expected her to catch onto that ability so quickly. She was by no means a pro at Occlumens, but the reversal she pulled was one of the few ways taught to deter a Legilimens from getting what they wanted.

“Always so difficult…” he muttered, gazing down at her. She had her eyes closed, a hand on her chest and legs pulled up, covered by the tablecloth. Bruised, roughed up, slightly bloody and she still gave nothing. What he’d briefly seen of the materials in her lap hadn’t been enough for him to even register what they were had he not seen the key word. But he barely knew a thing about Horcruxes. It looked like a trip to the library was in order. Perhaps this was the secret aunt Bella spoke of.

He slumped against the wall, knees up, arms propped up on them and sighed. His life was turned into a living Hell. Had been for nearly two years now. What his father had raised him to be, raised him to believe and what he was seeing everyday clashed horribly in a corrosive potion that released toxic fumes and nightmares. Was this the grand vision of the future for the wizarding world? Fishing in his pocket, he found the squished pack of cigarettes-one of his few vices he could freely indulge in-and summoned a spark with the tip of Granger’s stolen wand as he sucked in the igniting breath.

He hated himself. He hated Voldemort, aunt Bella…all of them.

He hated his father. The looks his mother was now throwing his way.

He hated the place he once was proud to call home. And Hogwarts.

But what he couldn’t bring himself to hate, was her.

He took another drag, eyes roving over to her and how she was still unmoving, eyes closed and breathing, but otherwise a thousand miles away. She who honestly had never done anything to him but cross his path. If she hadn’t befriended Harry Potter she wouldn’t even be in this situation. She wouldn’t have been thrown into the middle of it but would’ve certainly made sure she had an escape plan nonetheless. Probably long gone out of the country and with a new identity, keeping her head down and engaging in the fight from the shadows rather than the frontlines.

They couldn’t keep living like this. There was already so little of his soul left to blacken, but any more of this and he’d be just as vile as the men swarming around in black robes and silver masks. Occluding was one way to cope but it came with its own side-effects and it was getting harder to keep at it without feeling like he’d left something behind each time. When faced with his reality though, he’d rather drown in the bottom of a bottle, in the hazy fog of some dragonweed, or occlude everything away into numbness.

The war just needed to end.  
……………………….


	6. Occlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco decides to teach Hermione to occlude to protect her mind and shut out the pain. Turns out she’s a natural. Naturally.

He carried her to his room, accosted by his aunt on the way, demanding to know what he learned from her as she lay in his arms, pretending to be unconscious. All he answered her with was that she’d been researching something before she showcased surprisingly adept occlumen abilities and shut him out. He promised he’d extract more from her later, that he needed to find another approach before finally getting away from the woman and taking refuge in his room once again.

Upon the bed he rolled her out of the tablecloth, with her landing on her stomach, tucking her arms in tight to herself as he took stock of the damage on her back. He vanished her skimpy top off to join the pants and tablecloth discarded on the floor. With a flick of her wand he closed the curtains of both the window and the canopy bed, providing her privacy. There were always ears and eyes out, and he made sure not to silence the parlor just to assure his aunt that he was indeed doing what she expected of him, repulsive as that notion was.

She lay in confusion as he milled about his room and bathroom, coming out with a few bottles and jars of things. The mattress dipped with the pressure of his body as he sat next to her, then heard him whisper up a warming charm. Her head was turned away from him, hair obscuring her vision, so she was not prepared when she felt his palm softly touch her lower back. In an instant she rolled away from him. “The hell are you doing?” she hissed.

“Taking care of your injuries.” He deadpanned. “You’re welcome.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Well you’re more than welcome to sit and wait for them to heal the natural way, and in the meantime rack up more and further lengthening the process to suit your pride.” He picked up a jar of bruise paste and showed it to her. “Or, you can be a good girl and sit still while I apply this and get you right back to your sassy self.”

“Why?” she demanded, eyes narrowed.

He sighed. “Because Granger, I don’t want to keep doing this.”

“You should’ve thought about that when you claimed me for your own.”

“I did it so I wouldn’t have to see Fenrir Greyback do something ten times worse!” he shouted at her. “For fucking Merlin’s sake Hermione do you think I wanted any of this?”

“I don’t know what you want.”

“I sure as fuck don’t want to see you die on my floor.” He answered quickly. “Now, roll over and shut up.”

“Whatever you say, Master…” she sneered at him, rolling back onto her stomach and missing the grimace his face twisted at that word. He was no master. Not while he was pawn to another. A far more dark and evil master.

When seeing her abused back he exhaled, and slowly reached out again. She still flinched at his touch but his hand stayed this time, gently coasting back and forth across the purple marks, the warming charm cast on his hand some semblance of comfort. Whether these were from her fall in the kitchen, or being pounded against the parlor door was hard to say, only that they were the product of his doing.

“I’ve never struck a woman before.” He said suddenly, softly, the flash of memory hitting him in his gut.

“Well aren’t I something special then?” she mocked with utter disdain in her voice, another blow to his conscience.

Special? Certainly. Though he couldn’t say out loud as to why. Not that it mattered.

After her back was thoroughly warmed, he picked up the jar of cream and scooped two fingers in and applied it to her wounds. It needed to stay, take a few minutes to soak in and work into the tissue, leaving them with tense, awkward silence. She wouldn’t look at him; give him anything to work with so he let his eyes wander. It dawned on him that he hadn’t even given her naked form a proper look when he tossed her over his shoulder or hurled her into the bathtub. 

From her shoulders down, his eyes roved over her body, taking in the narrow dip of her waist, feminine and dare he say dainty. Her bum was round and perky, also bruised but he didn’t think she’d allow him to apply the paste there so he refrained from touching it. To say he was tempted was an understatement. She had shapely calves and thighs, firm muscles from being on the run, but thin. Being muggleborn had oddly given her an advantage for the life she was now living due to being a muggleborn. Resourceful and determined to live, her body had been honed into a weapon of both physical and magical means.

Without warning she rolled over, away from him and his lingering hand.

Uncrossing the arm she had over her chest, she flung back the hair that had fallen, exposing her breasts and bruised neck. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat when she lay back against his pillows and then demurely placed her hand across her breast as if she was posing for him to paint her in all her naked glory. It was actually pretty sexy. He placed his hand on her stomach, feeling it twitch under his touch.

“Remember, I’m trying to undo the damage.” He stated as she naturally tensed up.

“You’d need a time-turner for that.” She countered, feeling his fingers quiver with the implication of what could have been prevented otherwise.

Guilt weighed him down. “You don’t know how often I’ve thought of that. Getting one, going back to before all this began….never taking the Dark Mark.”

She hadn’t expected that confession. Curiosity piqued, she had to know.

“Would that be the only thing you’d change?”

His palm slid up her stomach, across her sternum, tapped her wrist to get her to move her hand which blocked his path of connection. After a moment’s hesitation the blockage was moved, but she brought both hands up to cup each breast, covering the nipple-which were becoming a distraction-and he continued his journey of warming her torso, easing her muscles as well as her peace of mind. At the dip of her throat, he eased back.

“I would change a lot of things.” He finally answered, seeing as there was no point in lying. She already knew he wasn’t the big bad Death Eater that everyone thought him to be. “If I take this off, are you going to try anything?” he inquired, hooking a finger under the collar.

“I think we both know just how futile that would be for me.” she responded dryly. She’d exhausted her escape attempt for the day.

“It goes back on afterwards.” He reminded her. “Release the prisoner.” He spoke to the cuff and touched the emblem. Immediately she felt the ribbon loosen into a natural state, with a little clasp that he undid and set on the pillow next to her. “I’ll try to avoid throttling you so we won’t have to keep doing that.”

It wasn’t so much of a promise, considering it hadn’t been him doing it but it made sense that he couldn’t keep undoing the collar every time she happened to have a mark. He applied the bruise cream, methodically slow and gentle, watching as her eyes would close and she’d take her swollen bottom lip in and ever so slightly arch like a cat being scratched. When she did her chest rose just enough for him to notice and wonder how it’d feel to lay his head upon them and nestle in, doing nothing but resting.

He worked the cream in on the lines he tore down her body, noticing the reaction his touch was bringing out in her. One long caress down her side brought out the tiniest of breathy gasps, and her eyes flew open. “Ah…I’m sorry…it’s s-sensitive.”

His lip curled up in a smile. That sound translated across from every woman he’d ever encountered. “Oh really now? Shall I work on it some more?”

“N-no.” she shook her head. “It’s probably the warming charm, that’s all.”

“Finite incantem.” He immediately said, watching her face as he called her bluff. Then he went right back to massaging the paste in, keeping his features schooled into the neutral boredom one would have with any menial task as she grew uneasy with his tender ministrations.

“Draco…” his name fell from her lips and took his attention wholly. “Are you…feeling me up?”

“What do you mean Granger? I’m just tending your wounds.”

She wriggled and shuffled her elbows so he’d let go, and then propped herself up to meet his mischievous grey eyes. “You’re not just doing this as penance for hurting me. Y-you’re trying to seduce me aren’t you?”

He reached out and brushed his thumb over the vicious mark he left on her in the library, smearing a little paste to it. Surprised by the gesture, she turned her head and watched as his thumb caressed back and forth. “I told you, I didn’t want to do it.”

“Because I’m a disgusting Mudblood and all, I know. That’s all it’s ever been about since the first day we met. I mean nothing to your people.”

“Not all.” He replied. 

Of course not. There were the Weasley’s and Longbottom, members of the Sacred 28 that considered her a friend if not family, fellow Gryffindors and part of Dumbledore’s Army, fighting for what was right. It must just be purist pureblood Slytherins that hated her existence, she mused bitterly to herself.

His hand let go of her, and as she turned back to face him she felt the pad of his thumb trail over her bottom lip, sneaking in a layer of residual bruise paste to it. “Now don’t talk. Don’t even lick your lip. Let it work itself in.” he ordered. “I took it too far today, doing that. There wasn’t a purpose other than to make you bleed just to appease my aunt. I mean yeah you did bite me but I shouldn’t have hit you either. And I know it’s hard for you to believe, but I was raised a gentleman. At least, to be one to those who matter-in my father’s opinion. It was difficult, to recognize you as a competent witch as well as being muggleborn. You weren’t like what I was told to expect, and I hated it because with your skills, your intelligence, we would’ve been some team. And you always had top marks, not matter what I did. It wasn’t fair. And if you weren’t muggleborn we could’ve studied together, been partners, hell…even have been friends.”

He took a breath, searching her earthy orbs for some kind of sign, something that told him what he was doing was right.

“I guess…I’m just saying…I’m sorry. For all of it. For six years of childish bullying and bullshit based on nothing. For things coming to this. This war, Dumbledore, the cabinet and the school…Professor Burbage and several others that died here…for y-yesterday…today…and whatever happens afterwards.”

Her eyes took on that glossy shine and her breath hitched as she flexed her jaw and tried to pry it out of his hand but he refused to let go. Every fiber in her being was screaming at her, telling her not to cry, show him no weakness to prey upon. Just because they’d reached a point of understanding that they were in positions they didn’t want to be in didn’t make them friends, however much she wished she could just believe he wanted out. But he wouldn’t risk himself like that. He might be filled with regret, with guilt, with fear for his life if he didn’t abide by the rules, but he was still her enemy.

“I want to make this right.”

Then the tears fell. Warm and wet, with a blink they cascaded down her cheek and onto his hand, that had moved from her lip to the sore and bruised cheek where he wiped them away. All armor she had crumbled. Words she’d only dared to dream of hearing had just been spoken, and by the person she never thought would utter them. Perhaps there was a ray of hope after all, a light underneath all the layers of bitter darkness. 

“H-how?” she whispered.

“I'm not a hero, Granger, but I'm willing to save you. I’m going to teach you properly occlude, to protect your mind.” He answered clearly, the determination set. “It’s the last part of you that hasn’t been violated. When the Dark Lord arrives they’re going to bring you before him and he will be ruthless. You’ve got to shut that information away, starting with this conversation.”

It went against everything he was standing for, what their initial understanding had been based upon. And her one trump card to play in an otherwise empty arsenal. He was putting himself at great risk if she didn’t do it properly, for everything would be opened and known. Whatever he was plotting, he was keeping on a need to know basis.

She nodded.

“Good.” He took his hands away from her face, their warmth leaving an empty coolness in their wake. A moment later he was holding up a bottle of something, showing it to her. “This is for soreness…in areas where there aren’t bruises…” he awkwardly explained, eyes quickly darting to her crossed legs, implying where it needed to be used. “I’ll get you something to wear while you…ah…yeah.” He quickly backed up and turned away so he wouldn’t witness her touching herself, applying the salve. She was already too tempting as it was, looking at him like that, responding to his touch the way she did…and being naked.

He shook away the irritating thought that he passed up on the prime opportune moment to kiss her just now. There was that beat of silence, that shared gaze, after the apology had fallen out and hung there for her to ascertain its authenticity. If he had leaned in, would she have accepted it? What if she had leaned instead? One kiss, a genuine connection of lips…it wouldn’t have taken much at all to have her. But he’d done enough damage. The last thing she needed was a pityfuck to follow after being so thoroughly punished.

She’d never be his, not genuinely. 

It was just best to get her out of here so she could join Potter and Weasley, fall in love with one of them, celebrate their victory once they defeated the Dark Lord and forget they ever heard the name Malfoy. He would nothing but a nightmare and bitter taste on their tongue as he rotted away in Azkaban, reading newspaper articles showcasing all the good they’d do for the world once they uprooted all the Death Eaters and tried them for their crimes.

It would be the natural order of things.  
………………………….  
It had been hours now, that had started in a thorough explanation and went straight to the practical application. It had taken her only two tries before she was comfortable and trusting enough to let him enter her mind, just so she knew what a presence felt like, what to prepare for. He warned her though that Voldemort would not be taking such a soft approach. So she told him to hold nothing back.

Almost like a classroom rivalry all over again, they squared off. 

He pushed relentlessly, she blocked.

He slammed her subconscious, she slapped back.

He tried tearing through to find the memory on the Horcruxes, to which she kept throwing up distracting memories of her doing schoolwork, reading, and doubling checking the boys’ homework. He didn’t bother asking what Horcruxes were in case he never acquired the information. He had to have some sort of accountability if the dark lord was to discover for himself. 

She was a quick study, always had been, but even he was surprised at how well she took to organizing her thoughts and compartmentalizing. She’d been doing it for years really, separating her emotions from certain matters or meshing the two together so that the focus of her project/goal/mission became everything to her, much like how fixing the cabinet had consumed his every waking moment. It was how she pulled information so easily from a recess the in vast library of her mind, raising her hand and spouting off the answer verbatim. She had a photographic memory.

Taking memories and information and emotions, locking them away in a box and hiding it somewhere dark and safe, while hard to do for someone who bloody well cared too much about anything and everything, was tantamount for survival. So it became her sole focus, her drive. With a new mission set before her she had become ferocious, all teeth and claws and eyes narrowed in a predatory gleam at his invading presence. She imagined herself as a mighty lioness, protecting her cubs, protecting the future. Her subconscious form slashed at him, roaring mightily never backing down from the black dragon that threatened her.

Sweat rolled down his back as he mentally sparred with her, his breathing labored. He hadn’t gone this long in a Legilimency spell since his training. Even his lessons with professor Snape and his mother had not been so arduous. Perhaps they’d gone easy on him. Or perhaps he’d just once again underestimated his opponent. Eventually, he had to pull back, else he be lost in her mind and risk absorbing her memories as his own.

Once separated, the two wavered and took in deep breaths, cradling their own heads and trying to gather their bearings. It was the longest they’d spent in each other’s company, not physically fighting or arguing as they did in class, the entire confrontation in their heads. She had stored away his instructions of what to do, and what sign to look towards should he have to do something to her in a public display, then made her hide it and keep him from accessing it. 

He had told her, “I won’t be able to always warn you. And I can’t be seen going soft on you. So you need to know, that starting now, anything and everything I have to say and do to you is for your own good.”

She’d nodded, understanding what that implied.

He continued. “It’s already a risk, telling you this much, and we can’t talk like this again. I can protect my own mind; I’ve been doing it for years. You on the other hand have always been too expressive. You need to lock it all away. Don’t look to me to help you; I can’t go against my master.”

She steeled herself. Let them think she was as soft inside as she appeared, while mentally forging her armor and gathering her weapons. She was to spend every waking moment honing her occlusion, shuttering away the most crucial information, leaving breadcrumbs to sniffed out and led away.

Thoroughly exhausted, she risked a glance at him to see he was already occluding himself, shutting away whatever had just crossed his mind. Whatever he’d wanted to say, put away. Right, she thought. We need to remain indifferent to each other, hate each other, let them believe that in any given moment we’ll rip each other’s throats out if presented the opportunity. It’s just a game of charades. 

She exhausted a sigh and lay against the pillows, idly tracing the ribbon choker that was back in place around her neck as she recalled him coming back with a pair of his pajamas and still turned away to give her privacy to change into them. She’d taken up the choker, felt the weight of it in her hands-figuratively of course, it barely weighed a thing-and eased it back onto her own neck to save him the awkwardness of having to redo it. When he finally turned to look at her his eyes had widened and mouth parted a bit before he wiped the expression off his face and began their lesson. Now afternoon, she could feel the toll of everything pull on her and before she knew it, her eyes were closed in slumber.

Draco raked a hand through his hair and lit a cigarette, going over it again in his head, telling himself this was the only thing he could do. In all this time he had though the little trio were off fighting Dementors and Death Eaters left and right, charging through the countryside wands blazing. Instead, they’d been hiding, living nomadically, and chasing clues to something, barely in the fray. He hadn’t realized just how the scales had been tipped; the Dark Lord was so close to securing his victory that it chilled his blood. If he’d identified Potter, it would’ve all been over. It had literally fallen into his hands, and he’d thrown himself against the current rather than float along. 

He signed his own death warrant then, but no longer cared. What good was this life anyway? So if there was anyone left to mourn him when this all came crashing down, he’d want it known that he had done at least one good thing. Whether people believed he’d done it out of goodness of his heart or just for the sake of cowardly compliance was up for debate. At least his soul wouldn’t laden with the same sins of his father. He had yet to take a life.

His elves knocked gently, respecting his orders for privacy long ago when Willy had once apparated into his room while he was in the middle of panic-attack. He’d sworn the elf to secrecy, none of the others must know, and every elf since was to knock and be given permission to enter. So they did, carrying in fresh towels, her washed clothing, and a plate of sandwiches because they missed lunch. As if to prove a point, his stomach growled. He supposed he’d worked up an appetite given everything. When Tipper placed the little pile of folded laundry on the corner of the bed, he caught a glint of something shiny peeking out from the sleeve of his Quidditch jersey. Reaching over and flipping the shirt aside, he caught sight of a well-worn galleon.

“It came from the young miss’s trousers.” Tipper explained. “Got it all cleaned in the wash.”

He held the coin. For some reason it felt warm, odd for metal. Rubbing his thumb along the face of it, a message appeared in chicken scratch handwriting, clearly saying ‘constant vigilance’ like it was a mantra. Perhaps she’d enchanted it to read positive messages to help keep encouraged. It was silly, but then again things were not in her favor. She might’ve needed every little bit to hold onto. Without giving it a second thought, he placed the coin in his pocket and dismissed the diminutive servants before pulling the tray of sandwiches and two glasses of juice towards himself.

As he picked up one he heard a papery crackle. Curious he lifted up the top slice of bread and found a note that had been tucked within. 

‘The Dark Lord arrives tomorrow’ it read ominously, a heads’ up from his mother.

He incinerated the note immediately.

He woke Hermione, poking her with the tip of her wand at first but she was out cold. He sighed and placed his hand on her arm, sliding against her skin as he called out to her. In this rare quiet moment it was easy to pretend things were far more domestic and peaceful, waking a paramour rather than a prisoner. Why he was even entertaining the thought was beyond him. Perhaps he’d truly lost his mind given how much he’d lost nearly everything else. A cheap little fantasy about the muggleborn who’d always bested him seemed par for the course.

Her waking shouldn’t have been such a fascinating process to watch either, but the way her lashes fluttered dreamily-as if she’d been in a fantasy of her own-and how her nose wrinkled when she yawned was actually kind of cute. Fuck! Damnit it, he’d have to occlude these thoughts as well. He shouldn’t be seeing this; he shouldn’t have any inkling as to how Hermione Granger looked when she awoke. 

He shoved the sandwich in her face abruptly and turned away from her before she could register her confusion. She should be glad she isn’t down in the dungeon with barely edible gruel, he groused as he bit into his own hoagie and forced it down. If he finished the entire thing it’d be a miracle. They ate in silence. Drank in silence. Stacked their dishes in silence. 

He turned around and without warning, probed into her mind with Legilimens. He made sure to come in swinging hard, like a wrecking ball to a brick wall, making sure it was painful and invasive, but probably still paling in comparison to the power and technique of his dark master. Her reflexes were quick like her temper, and she lashed at him physically but he grabbed her wrist before she could land a hit and kept the mental attack going. He needed her to be as prepared as he could get her to be, and fresh from sleep was just as vulnerable as freshly beaten and broken down. If she could resist him like this then she stood a chance.

She had no idea what he was looking for, so in her defense she kept trying to black things out, think of walls, or recall memories of everyday life in muggle London and the school she attended before getting her Hogwarts letter. Anything and everything that wasn’t something of the wizarding world. Just keep his nosy arse out of anything he might recognize. All the while she hurled insulting barbs his way just to see if it would disrupt his concentration.

It certainly didn’t make his task any easier.

He growled in frustration at his inability to find what he wanted at the same time as never being so thankful in all his life for it. There would only be so much he could fake for the Dark Lord, knowing his own mind would likely be probed just to make sure. If he honestly wasn’t finding it, it couldn’t be said for a lack of trying. Was this how Snape went at Potter? He’d been informed his godfather was tasked in training the Boy-Wonder to occlude so as to shut his mind away from Voldemort but it wasn’t something often brought up in meetings, and Snape couldn’t always attend every meeting either. All he knew was that the lessons hadn’t last long before he and his sidekicks went on the lam so he probably hadn’t learned much.

By the time dinner was announced he could say he at least knew more of her muggle life than he ever thought possible. Her quaint little home, her cheerful parents, their dentistry practice she often visited on her way home from school, the school she attended, the friends she had, the countless trips to the library, befriending and talking to every bloody professor and staff member there-even the hired help-and the park near her home where she often sat under a tree to read on nice days. 

It was like vicariously living a muggle life, magicless and yet magical at the same time as he took in her wonder of the world around her. She was a black hole, thirsting for knowledge, answers to the mysteries unsolved, with a solution to the problems of the world. Everything she read and researched was for a purpose, a greater good, a way to improve what was flawed. Every time she encountered a city employee of sorts she always had an opinion as to how to do their job in a time efficient way, or produce better results, a new method that made their life easier. Her energy and outpouring love was exhausting, yet damned if it didn’t dawn him in as to why. Why did she care so much about people she didn’t know? Of those who were nothing but a blip on her radar as she passed them by, yet she made sure to share her bloody wisdom.

A fucking goody-two-shoe if there ever was. Her name should be right beside its definition. A Merlin-be-damn light to the world. Something worth saving.

Again, he left her in the room with no one but a house elf to tend to her needs. Dinner was one of the occasions where he couldn’t be denied a glass of firewhiskey, especially with the present company. It didn’t surprise him in the least that Aunt Bella started grilling him for details the moment he sat down. Despite his mother’s protests that their talk could happen after their meal, she was overruled by the insistence of his father as well.

Fuck.

He took a hefty swig and set the tumbler down. “As usual, she proves to be difficult as she has had some Occlumency training. Probably by Dumbledore.” He suggested quickly. “I’ve been running through her life before Hogwarts, looking for weaknesses I can press. I have her family address-”

“Excellent!” Bella shrieked. “We’ll find her rotten muggle parents and kill them if she refuses to give in.”

He felt gutted. That wasn’t what he wanted but he couldn’t stop them.

“Sure, yeah.” He nodded as if the plan was brilliant. “We could drag them here and torture them a bit. I’m sure it’ll make her cave in a second.”

Narcissa poked her veal with little emotion.

“W-where is our master now?” he asked wearily.

“France.” Lucius answered. “Stationed at yet another one of our residences as he gathers more soldiers.”

“Ah.” Draco replied, feigning disinterest. Actually, it was pure interest. The Dark Lord could literally Floo here in mere seconds and hadn’t yet. Which meant he was either actually quite busy; recruiting or slaughtering, didn’t matter, both were equally exhausting. Or he was biding his time, waiting perhaps for a breakthrough. No doubt Aunt Bella was keeping him apprised of the situation. 

“You’ll be presenting our esteemed guest with your pet.” Lucius reminded him, making the food he’d just put in his mouth turn to ash.

Thanks father.

“Of course.” He automatically responded. He’d long lost count of the reflex responses that had poured from his mouth ever since Voldemort branded him and then some. He was a well-trained dog, knowing just what to do or say to please his masters. 

“See to it your little mud-bitch behaves herself or she’ll be snake food.” Bellatrix cackled, as if she were hoping Hermione would do something foolish enough so they could bring Nagini out again. Just the thought of the snake extending her massive jaw, dislodging it to gorge on the body of his former Muggle Studies professor was enough to make him gag. He covered it with a cough and slap to his chest, reaching for his tumbler. There would be no finishing this meal tonight. And probably not tomorrow either. Meals were hard to digest in the presence of the dark wizard. How Aunt Bella was enamored with the ghoul was beyond sane understanding.

It didn’t make much coaxing to be excused for the evening, lying about having to break in his Mudblood some more and barely containing the urge to hurl as the words came from his mouth. Taking every ounce of restraint and energy, he left the room with grace and made it into the main foyer before barreling up the stairs and practically breaking down his bedroom door as he all but flew into his bathroom, retching into the toilet not a second too soon.

Hermione, bless her wit, had immediately ran and shut his bedroom door, never minding the house elf that still stood by his side, making sure that all silverware was accounted for. Tipper turned around and came to Draco’s side, offering his services. 

“He’ll need a calming draught, some water, and bread at least.”

Draco continued heaving despite emptying what little had already evacuated his stomach, waving the elf off to do as she suggested, not having the energy to even argue. He didn’t even fight when he felt her pull off his evening robes and dab his face with a clean, wet washcloth. If she wanted to feel like she was evening the score, let her. 

Tipper returned with the requested items. Hermione made Draco drink the calming draught, eat a bite of bread, drink some water, eat another piece of bread, and then guzzle the last of the water. He wiped his face and leaned back against the wall; legs sprawled on the tiled floor as his eyes fought for focus, the potion and the alcohol at war in his system.

“He comes…tomorrow.” He rasped, throat raw and acidic.

She swallowed the lump that hung in her throat at that. Tomorrow would determine if she lived or died. Nothing else would’ve gotten him this worked up.

She watched as he patted himself with shaky hands, looking for his cigarettes. He was so shaken he could barely hold the pack. She snatched it from him and pulled one out and stuck the butt end in his mouth. He pulled her wand out, but couldn’t be trusted to incant the spell in his state. With pleading grey eyes, he silently implored her to do it.

Her hand went around his at the base of the wand and tilted it right at his mouth. If she so choose, she could Avada him on the spot and then take her chances making a break for it. Instead, she conjured the little flame and watched as he inhaled the poison with a sigh like he’d found religion. 

“That’s two chances Granger…could’ve easily done it…” he chided after the initial drag.

“I know.” 

He shook his head. “We’re in a war. You’re being held by the enemy, and yet you’re not casting killing curses. Do you think they’re going to show the same curtesy?”

“I’m not a killer.” She answered with conviction.

“I’m not either, doesn’t mean I’m innocent.”

She waved the smoke away and coughed. “You’re just following orders.”

Something in her voice sounded dead. Her eyes wouldn’t quite meet his. “I should sleep in my tent tonight, right?”

He nodded. “It would be best. Not sure when to expect him.” He took a drag. “Be hard to explain having you in my arms if I’m not violating you.”

Her teeth pulled her bottom lip in tightly. As she thought. “Right.” It would be another restless night, one probably filled with nightmares and cold sweats. For which one of them, she couldn’t say.

It went unsaid between them, how much of a comfort it had been, for the both of them. It had to remain unsaid.

She left him in the bathroom to finish his smoke, finding the smell just as offensive as the knowledge of what it did to people’s teeth. She’d heard horror stories from her parents of the cancer, the stains, the terrible breath that never went away, and the addictive pull it held people in. How it somehow brought him a sense of peace boggled her as she crawled into the tent and zipped the flap shut.

If he was trying to kill himself, he was going about it in a terribly slow fashion.  
…………………………….


	7. Entertainment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort returns to the manor to discover the deal that has been made without his consent. A lesson and test awaits Draco for the entertainment of the Dark Lord and fellow Death Eaters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *TRIGGER WARNING* Ok, so this is the chapter in which there is actual rape and by multiple participants, but I do not go into much detail over it. The fact of the matter is that it happens, not how. It is a plot pusher, a motivator for things to come, so yes, it had to happen, and not just for Hermione.  
> The scene is mentioned in brief, a mere paragraph or two because this is not a glorified X-rated porn fic. It will be referred to henceforth, but again, briefly. It doesn't need to be described in detail. It is something that happens in war and we all know it.  
> Trust me, I don't like putting Hermione through this as I do love the character so much. but for such a strong character obviously something devastating has to happen in order to try to drag them down. If anything, they've only made her stronger.  
> It's also located towards the end of the chapter and will have a marker.

Monday, April 6th, 1998

It was another restless night. The calming draught did little-as he knew it would, but he didn’t argue when she made him drink it-as did the purging of his stomach and the cigarette to follow. When she entered her tent for the evening and he to his bed, he felt the overwhelming impending darkness creep in and settle inside his brain, giving rise to all the old familiar nightmares that by now had become normal.

For a Slytherin, he had developed quite the dislike for snakes now.

They slithered and slunk, quick or languid, there seemed to be no outrunning them. The way their jaws dislocated and split, it felt unnatural. The writhing mess of their prey as it was devoured, into a giant mouth and deeper throat and into a belly that seemed to never end. A creature of no legs or claws, and yet it was far more terrifying than most things he’d encountered.

When he heard the scream, distinguished from his own, he thought it was the onslaught of a new dream. But it was ripe with terror, and there was a resounding crack as doors flung open, furniture was knocked aside, and something breaking. The sounds were far too close and real to be figments of imagination. He bolted upright, unsure if he was still caught in a nightmare as the slithering form of Nagini had Hermione wrapped in her coils, the girl batting her arms helplessly and she began gasping for breath, hair a wild mess as the serpentine beast began dragging her out of his room.

One split second of her wide brown eyes meeting his before the snake rounded the corner and was out of the room, he was on his feet, surveying his demolished room and realizing that not only was this real, it meant the Dark Lord was here.

Now.

Her cry for help spurred him into action, dashing down the hall and chasing the tail as Hermione hit every step on the way down the staircase, fingers grasping desperately at the banister, the rug, the wall, anything her hands touched. The snake was deceptively fast, on orders from her master, and he was already huffing for breath as he ran across the main foyer and into the hall when she turned into the drawing room.

His stomach sank with the realization of what that meant.

It was a particular favorite of their esteemed guest, and was used for only the most intimate of meetings. The grand dining hall was for full board members. He was bedraggled; hair askew, pajamas rumpled, barefoot and had no time to prepare his mind and barely any to mask his emotional state as he followed in with a brisk walk, watching the snake deposit his captive classmate at the Dark Lord’s feet.

When Nagini relinquished her hold, Hermione was a heap of limbs and hair, wheezing and coughing as she was coming to.

The man-if one could even call him that-was sitting in his father’s usual seat, as he was wont to do when he was here, and held his hand out to caress the snake’s head as she slithered up to his side. They both looked in Draco’s direction as he entered the room, bowing of course to show his respect.

“Ah, so it would seem the little dragon has caught himself a Mudblood pet?” Voldemort crooned, his voice was just as dangerous when he was amused as when he was angry. He honestly couldn’t tell if he was screwed or not.

But he nodded. “Yes, that’s right sir.”

“For someone who failed to kill Dumbledore it is bold of you to presume you get such a boon.”

He was screwed.

“Your aunt was going to give her over to Greyback, until you said you had a claim.” His raspy voice was calm, as if discussing the weather. “Pray tell, what could this Mudblood have over you?”

Hermione was on her knees, hair draped over her face but he could tell she could see through the strands. 

Draco knew he couldn’t use the same excuse he’d given Fenrir about being outdone every year in school by her, Voldemort wouldn’t buy it. If anything, he’d be subjected to relentless belittling at yet another failure, never minding it started long before his resurrection.

“In third year, she accosted me.” he said, knowing he was admitting to weakness, but wounding a wizard’s pride went deep.

“Did she?” the dark wizard purred with amusement. “Well now, that is serious indeed. She drew blood?”

“I had to go see the healer. Told her I fell off my broom.” He answered. 

The dark wizard’s sickly pallor made him look like a ghoul in comparison to the fair skin of the Malfoy’s Hermione noted, wondering whatever details she memorized of the man might come in handy. Perhaps that’s what happens when you split your soul into several pieces. He was barefoot, his toenails and fingernails long, ending in tapered points, and he was most notably missing his nose. It was all but a slit in his inhuman face, with soulless dark eyes and glinting teeth that was pulled back behind thin lips into what might be considered a smile.

He was ghastly. No wonder Draco had nightmares.

“Then I say your claim is valid, but it still begs the question: Do you deserve to have her?”

Her breath hitched before she could stop herself. The ghoul before her turned away from Draco and now looked down at her. “Oh? Don’t like the idea?”

Was he really expecting her to answer him?

“Speak Mudblood. Tell me, who would you rather be your master? This pathetic lout who has yet to shed blood in his servitude to me, or the werewolf? Whom I can assure you, has promised to let you live.”

“I’d rather be my own.” She replied, staring him in the face.

Draco felt like he was choking internally, the wedge in his throat refusing to budge. She was going to get herself killed. Brave and foolish Gryffindor.

To their shock, the villain laughed, throwing his head and cackling to full delight as if he’d heard the funniest joke in the world. Even the snake seemed to hiss in pleasure. “Oh Draco, what a delight this one is!” he chortled, looking her over. “Yes, I think she’ll do nicely, for entertainment. You’ll need to break that lovely fighter’s spirit in her in order to retrieve any information of merit. We all know that Charles Weasley has been sequestered away in Romania for years now, and if he were to really be bringing in a hoard of dragons, he would’ve done so already.”

Fuck! He knew too much about someone who was that far away?

“As it stands though, since this creature doesn’t recognize you as her master, I do believe a new residence is in order.” He carried on, both teens understanding quickly where he meant for her to go.

Draco gave another small bow. “Right my lord. I’ll take her there personally. A cage is far better suited for the likes of her.” He sternly glanced over and snapped his fingers, the choker reacting and compelling Hermione to her feet. When she stepped up to him and he took her arm, the dark wizard held up a hand for a final note.

“You will do well to properly train your little pet; else the vicious thing attacks anyone else. We will be discussing that particular oversight of yours this evening.”

Draco clenched, Hermione could feel it not only in the vice grip of his fingers digging into her flesh but in his very aura. He was afraid. Whatever Voldemort said clearly meant a punishment was in store for his inability to keep her reigned and the fight between her and Bellatrix was now going to fall on the shoulders of him, as she was his responsibility.  
Guilt surged in her stomach as he forced marched her out of the room and down the corridor where she had last seen Harry and Ron be led down. Smooth polished wooden stairs gave way to rough stone steps as he took the path that led to the holding cells.

“A few hundred years ago, the Malfoy’s would host slave auctions.” He said, as if he were giving her a tour of the grounds. It broke the uncomfortable silence. “Sometimes…it would be hunts…letting werewolves loose to capture a village’s worth of muggles.”

The chill damp air of the dungeons caused her to hunch in closer to him despite knowing he was going to be leaving her down here. Gone was the morning light, replaced only with the occasional wall sconce. Gone was wooden paneling and polished marble floors, packed earth and rough cobbled stone now was her surrounding décor. The cell he led her to at least had a bench. A bucket in the corner to use as a toilet. Another bucket with water in another corner, presumably for drinking. 

Home sweet home.

She stood at the bars, turning around with an apology on her lips before his hand came up, pressed against it, as did the rest of him.

“Don’t.” he ordered in a low tone. “Don’t apologize. Don’t show weakness.”

She blinked several times, the only way she could communicate with her body pinned to the door and a hand clamped over her mouth. He was slow to release her, eye boring into hers. There was something he wanted to say, and yet he couldn’t. He broke eye contact and opened the door, ushered her in and pulled it shut. From between the bars they continued staring in silence, until he finally relented and disappeared into the darkness.

…………………………..  
Isolation in darkness.

It was a personal brand of torture for Hermione. She’d never liked blackouts. A storm that knocked out the power grid meant the loss of light for reading. Candlelight sufficed but only if there was enough. And her home paled in comparison to the overflowing stock Hogwarts had sequestered away for daily use.

There was barely light enough to see, but it only took a matter of time to adjust to that until she knew the cell as well as the back of her hand.

There was absolutely nothing for her to do. And thus, her mind ran rampant.

Fear, especially psychological fear was partially cruel. She knew this, and for the first few hours she’d managed a state of calm-perhaps denial-and had even lain back down to sleep, uncomfortable as the wooden bench was it was better than the cold floor. But when it became apparent that no matter which way she lie she couldn’t get comfortable and therefore had to forfeit the idea. 

She paced the length of the bars. She touched every square inch to see if she could detect wards or trigger a cantrip. It was as ordinary as a muggle jail cell oddly, but perhaps that was the point. They had been capturing wizards, who would no doubt expect to be thrown in a magically protected dungeon that they could fight against. But there was no magic here, and thus, nothing for her to attempt anything with.

Or perhaps they’d removed the magic after the boys escaped….

Either way, all she was left with were thoughts, and currently she was not good company. All she could think about was what would be in store for them tonight; “entertainment” Voldemort had put it. And it sounded like Draco was in just as much trouble as she was if not more. Apparently their benevolent dark lord was not such a forgiving god.

Draco’s last words to her “Don’t show weakness.” played over and over in her head. She sat and occluded everything away, every bit of advice he’d bequeathed, confession he made, and his apologies. The dark lord couldn’t see them or he would know of Draco’s betrayal. She only hoped that she was strong enough, clever enough, and determined enough to resist any Legilimens.

……………………………..

When Draco emerged from the dungeon he noted that Voldemort had retreated to his personal guest room, but the snake remained, curled up at the hearth, no doubt his little spy at work. Draco knew there was a deeper connection between the wizard and familiar, almost like a bond. He always watched his words and actions when near the reptile, just something in his gut that gave him the insight to do so.

He righted everything that Hermione had disturbed as she’d been dragged through the manor, luckily nothing had broke or his father would’ve had a fit. It didn’t surprise him that she tried-though in vain-to resist, hell he would’ve too. His room was a whole other matter. Nagini had broken down his door, how? Dark magic probably. His privacy wards felt as protective as a security blanket. Once breached the entire structure was compromised. He’d have to start all over and hopefully weave a different tapestry of spellwork.

His room was in disarray, the beast cared not for knocking over chairs and breaking the legs of such, tearing a hole through the muggle tent and slapping her mighty tail across the little book barricade. The scene was not all that different from an episode in his youth, a time when he had been told ‘no’ over something he had wanted, so he raged and raged, tearing his room apart in a fine tantrum.

As punishment for his uncouth behavior he was made to clean his room-without the help of wand or house elf. 

A pang struck in his chest at the abruptness of it all. There’d been no time to react, even if she’d been armed with her wand, she would’ve been halfway through a spell before the pressure of the lengthy coils would’ve rendered her breathless, perhaps even made her drop it. And he’d been no better, the shear shock delaying his usually quick reflexes. And what was he to do anyway? Shoot the snake? Ha, that would be signing his death certificate. He was grateful all that it led to had been to satisfy the dark wizard’s curiosity and she was tossed aside until needed for later.

But what did later entail?

He cleaned his room in a daze, picking up the books by hand and stacking them neatly, unsure if she had a specific method. With her wand, he repaired the tent, the legs of his chairs and vanished away the debris. Then he selected an outfit, took a quick shower and changed, coming down the stairs to meet his parents for breakfast and seeing their distressed faces he wondered if he’d ever get to enjoy a meal in his home ever again.

“Quite the wakeup call this morning.” Lucius quipped over his teacup. There was so much whiskey in it Draco wondered if he just merely heated up the bottle.

“Your aunt is currently entertaining our guest.” Narcissa stated through tight teeth. The fact that her sister could even be attracted to, let alone touch that, that…thing masquerading as a human was abhorrent. But at least the witch was out of their hair, and He was not looming over their shoulders. The reprieve was welcome.

No wonder Bellatrix was Voldemort’s favorite….

Draco barely repressed his shudder. His stomach protested for food, but he doubted it would stay down long enough to be considered ingested. 

“There will be a meeting this evening.” Lucius added onto Draco’s already burdened shoulders. “Whatever the Dark Lord asks of you, do it, without hesitation.”

Draco raised his eyebrow with a silent ‘Fuck you, that’s all I’ve been doing’ and bit into his croissant. “Yeah yeah.” He murmured. He’d long lost the admiration and respect he held for this man. He was a facsimile of his former self, clinging to Voldemort’s robes like a toddler to his mother’s skirt. He no longer held sway with his words, no longer exuded power in his stance, his walk. He no longer had that iron fist. He was just a barking dog, snarling at anyone who came to the fence line.

When their tense and awkward meal was over, Narcissa requested for Draco to accompany her to the gardens. Lucius slunk away to whatever corner of the manor he did, nursing his hot toddy and grumbling at the articles in the newspaper. Draco followed his mother dutifully and silently until they were well out of range of prying ears and eyes. The basket with shears hanging on her arm was merely a prop, something for her hands to busy themselves with.

“How is she?” she asked, head barely turned enough for him to hear it over her shoulder.

“Fine for now.” He answered truthfully. “I applied the pain-relief rub and bruise paste you left.”

“What have you told her?” She snipped away a yellowed leaf from an otherwise healthy stem.

“The truth mother. That I didn’t want to do it. But if it’s required of me I can’t refuse. She’s naturally gifted with Occlumency, so I tutored her through a session, seeing if there was anything I could get out of her before she caught on. I think she’s been out of touch with the Order too long, her information was outdated. The Dark Lord wasn’t impressed.”

“I remember the way you used to speak of her.” She said, hesitant to ask the question on her mind. But she had to know. “Do you enjoy hurting her?”

He was taken aback, mouth momentarily agape. “I’m not some fucking monster Mum! Stupid insults in the classroom is worlds apart from ….being physical.” He shuddered and brought his hands up to rest on his upper arms. “There’s a difference between teasing her and breaking her.”

“If an opportunity presents itself, get her out of here.” She ordered, snipping loudly to vent her frustration. “I didn’t raise my son to brutalize women in the name of a lunatic’s war.” She spent several seconds snipping a few buds in order to arrange a bouquet for later, but otherwise nearly mutilated the bush. “If there is the tiniest chance that she could ever forgive us-forgive you-for what you’ve had to do then you will spend the rest of your life in her debt. Whatever she needs, I don’t care, she will have it. It still won’t ever be enough, but I’ll be damned to let it go without retribution.”

Draco blinked slowly for a several seconds. Was his mother seriously and openly telling him to defy the dark lord, merely for the sake of the muggleborn witch? Had this been her tipping point? Enough blood had been spilt but the sake of one violated witch and all bets were off. Seeing her son become something as dark and twisted as the men that dined at their table was her final straw.

“Mum…” he licked his dry lips. There was no easy way to say it, but he had to make it known. “I didn’t know…she was untouched before I had her….in my bed.”

Narcissa whirled around on him, eyes beseeching him as she realized the severity of the situation. Of the Ancient Marriage Pact that had been enacted. The old rite dating back to the medieval period where the sanctity of a marriage was only validated by the blood spilt of the virginal bride. A rite that was still very much in place, with Narcissa being the last virginal bride in a Malfoy bed two and a half decades prior.

“I asked!” he protested in his defense. “But she didn’t answer, and it wasn’t exactly a discussion I could have with a werewolf right outside the door. She’d been in some sort of relationship with Weasley…”

“And you just assumed.” She finished for him, disappointment in her voice.

He sighed. “Look, it’s not like my life is brimming with choices currently. No matter what I do I’m a dead man. I just tried to be quick but at least make it enjoyable for her.” He started raking his fingers through his hair in his grief, eyes burning with shame. “It was all I could do…” he broke, shuddering as his head dropped to his mother’s shoulder, and her arms came up to embrace him, holding him tight as he begged for forgiveness.

“We’ll get through this.” She promised.  
…………………………..

We’ll get through this, he whispered in his mind, standing in the entrance that led to the dungeon. 

We’ll get through this.

We have to get through this.

We are going to get through this.

With every step, the mantra repeated in his head. He’d occluded the time spent in the garden with his mother, locking it firmly away. He’d long since dried his eyes and mentally steeled himself for whatever may come. He made no attempt to silence his steps, alerting her to his presence before she saw him. Immediately, she was on her feet, hands gripping the bars, face momentarily broken with a joyful expression before she realized what she was doing and began to school her features into a mellow mask.

Good girl.

Apprehension and the odd sense of relief washed over her at seeing Malfoy being the one to get her, since he’d been the one to also imprison her. While her mind was as secure as it would ever be, she had never been able to hide her emotions. She’d never been a convincing liar, the compulsion to tell the truth always found a tell to give her away. Honestly, she was surprised at how she’d managed to fool so many professors at a school for young wizards and witches with all the spells and glamours and means like Occlumency to hide how they felt.

He opened the door and took hold of her arm, as was apparently customary in handling prisoners despite the use of a collar that could drag her along if he so chose. It was gentler than before, still firm, but not punishing. No, there would be plenty of that to come.

The dining room had a full table, Voldemort at the head, his chair styled like a throne with sharp tapering peaks, also several inches taller so that all occupants had to tilt their eyes upward to acknowledge him. On his left, Bellatrix, Narcissa, Lucius, the empty seat of Draco’s, at the other end of the table sat Snape. To his right was Rodolphus Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, Theodore Nott Sr. and Gilmont Goyle. Standing off to the side, as he was considered more beast than man, was Fenrir Greyback, with Nagini. When Draco entered the room with Hermione, she faltered at the sight of her former Potions professor-and Dumbledore’s murderer-and had to be urged along with a tug on her arm. She glared rusty daggers at him and would’ve spat on him if she knew a Cruciatus wouldn’t follow right behind.

“Ah, splendid.” Voldemort announced to his table as if he were hosting an everyday evening among friends and the main course had arrived. The simile wasn’t too off the mark for Death Eaters. He motioned for Draco to parade her around the left side of the table and stand by the grand fireplace. Despite the heat of the blaze crackling she shivered as she watched the eyes of Dolohov rove over her, recognizing her instantly.

“Now, we have a little conundrum here.” The serpentine continued, waving his hand in the general direction of the two. “Our young Death Eater fancies himself man enough to claim a Mudblood whore for entertainment, yet has failed me in a test of true loyalty, leaving it in the hands of his godfather to finish.” He turned to the new headmaster of the school. “What say you Snape? You took the life he was assigned, perhaps the girl should go to you?”

Hermione blanched at the thought, forgoing any attempt to hide her shock or disgust. Luckily, she was met with just as much from the man himself.

“Generous of you my Lord, but I do not take pleasure with a barely formed female. Her figure does little to rouse me.” he replied in the most bored tone she’d heard from him, he barely spared her a glance either. Perhaps he truly was disgusted with the thought of her body-which she was very much glad for!-and would happily agree that she was a long ways away from being an enticing woman.

Voldemort shrugged as if it mattered not what the professor had to say, or as if he knew that is what he would say, as he then met the withering gaze of Dolohov and addressed him. “I see you notice your handiwork Antonin….is that not your signature strike?” he gestured to the massive purplish scar on Hermione’s torso, once again on display with the ridiculous bedlah she was forced to wear, only this time in black. Well, mostly black, it still retained scuffing from being wrapped in a giant snake’s coils and dragged through a house, then being thrown into a musty dirt packed cell for an entire day. Dirt clung to the solid color as well as her thighs and feet and arms.

“It tis.” He retorted in a clipped voice, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. “Little bitch Silencio’d me or she wouldn’t be standing.”

“Ah, so then, you’d like to rectify that?” their leader teased. As if he needed to ask. The predatory gleam in his eye was evident enough. “And of course….Fenrir…” he cooed, letting his voice roll over the room like a master speaking to his beloved canine pet. “You caught the little thing in the forest. It was you who brought her here.”

Draco didn’t like where this line of conversation was going.

“Oi, that I did.” The werewolf answered as if he’d won his house points.

“Now then.” Voldemort pressed his hands together, drawing the attention of everyone in the room to them. Long, tapered, filthy sharp fingernails. “Draco here has told me his claim to the witch stems back from their third year, which does indeed; supersede any interaction from either of you.”

He gave pause long enough for everyone to exchange looks and murmur a few words.

“And though he did repair the cabinet, his initial task to solidify himself amongst the ranks was met in failure.”

Draco had endured several rounds of Crucio and a litany of other curses that night, being told that he’d failed his initiation as a ranking Death Eater and was being reduced to the status of lackey until he could prove himself. His completion of the cabinet was merely a figurative way to gain entry; there had always been a contingency for Snape to tear down the anti-apparation wards. So in the end, the task he did complete had not been held in high regard.

“And to top it off, he failed to bind the witch’s magic.” He concluded. “She was able to retrieve her wand and disarm Bellatrix, and then most indignantly struck our dear general in the face. Had the Mudblood given it a proper thought, it would’ve been a killing curse rather than a disarming.”

Narcissa closed her eyes and took a breath. Of course they’d not forget to include that. The girl had actually come close to breaking her sister’s nose. Secretly, she was impressed the tiny thing could wield that much power.

“You see Draco,” Voldemort continued, shifting his eyes to him, “When you take on a pet, you most dominate it immediately, or else it will continue to lash out. Your oversight nearly cost your aunt’s life.”

The air was heavy with the implication.

“Forgive me, it was my oversight. I was unfamiliar with the collar…I thought it automatically bound in her power.” Draco immediately began apologizing, addressing both his dark lord and aunt.

Voldemort’s upraised hand brought instant silence from him as he turned to his favored general. “As it was your life that was at risk, my dear, do tell, whom do you think deserves a more thorough reminder of their place?”

Narcissa’s hands clenched the fabric of her robe while hidden from view under the table. She could not reach out in comfort from her husband, nor could she delicately persuade her sister from her upcoming decision. Stuck between the bonds of blood and marriage and yet neither would be an ally. The lack of the serpent tattoo on her arm made her an outsider, an oddity, an exception and she could easily be turned away if she voiced her opinion.

Hermione was beginning to see why Draco had reacted the way he did in the presence of this maniacal tyrant earlier. Death Eaters were supposed to show complete obedience and loyalty to their lord, and expect severe punishment should they displease him in any manner. Apparently, that was all Draco had been doing since being branded. He hadn’t fulfilled his duties to his masters’ liking.

“Both, I’d say.” The woman replied after only seconds of thought. “The little bitch dared defying me, even after Drake promised to handle her.” She angled her head so Hermione knew she was addressing her directly. “And how’d that go little slag? Pounded you into the door so hard I thought it’d splinter. You thought he’d show you mercy? Ha!”

Her face flushed with defiance and shame. So the sick bitch had been listening in.

“Both it is then.” The dark wizard concluded. “But let’s have a little fun with it.”

…………………………………….

“Narcissa, I do believe your presence is no longer called for.” Voldemort stated calmly. “That darling weakness of motherhood does tend to ruin the fun when you protest he’s just a boy. Obviously, dear flower, he is no innocent babe.”

Poised and calm as ever, she bowed her head graciously before excusing herself from her seat. “Thank you my lord. The ties of motherhood are far too strong to ignore. I trust that he’ll be punished accordingly.”

“Oh he will.” Her sister wickedly promised. “Try not to coddle him too much Cissa, it makes men weak.”

As if to prove her detachment, Narcissa did not spare her son a parting glance. She did however; meet the terrified brown eyes of their prisoner for the briefest of seconds, sending her the strength she would need to endure what was coming. With the click of the door behind her, she prayed. Silently and honestly, to any deity above to see those two through.

“Snape, you have the Veritaserum?” 

He procured it from his robes. A little went a long way for a few rounds of integration. Clear and yet unlike water, it rendered the taker to speak in honest truths. Compelled them against their desire to remain elusive. Even some of the best Occlumens could fall prey to its spell. All depending on what question was asked, how it was worded, and how the taker knew what to say without saying too much. Apparently, Draco’s failure to procure any decent information about the Order was going to be extracted out of her the old fashioned way. She prayed that her walls were strong enough as the vial was pressed to her lips and she was forced to drink. It was flat and metallic, like expensive bottled water that was somehow more “pure” and unfiltered but tasted worse than regular tap.

“The boy too.” 

Draco took the vial and knocked back the rest without hesitation. Just do what is commanded of you and get through it.

Snape waited the customary few seconds for the potion to make its way down before asking a generalized question that would leave no doubt for complete honesty.

“What did Dumbledore bequeath you upon his death?” he asked of her.

She was astonished he even knew the Headmaster left her anything since he’d fled the scene after killing the man. He certainly wasn’t there for the funeral.

“An old copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. It must’ve held sentimental value.” She replied before even considering trying to simply say ‘a book’ just to be snarky. Apparently, good old Veritaserum didn’t play like that.

Snickers followed the answer. 

“And you,” He turned to the pale blond beside her. “What spell did Potter nearly end your life with?”

For a moment he looked confused, replaying the scene in his head. Spells had been cast on reflex, rapid fire and without concern for consequence. Honestly, he couldn’t recall.  
“I am unsure. The duel was so quick. It started with an S.”

“Sectumsempra.” Hermione spoke up, earning a slow head turn and glare from both her former potion professor and classmate.

“Of course.” Snape sneered. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

She flushed with shame and shrank into herself. Their professor turned back to address the table full of Death Eaters. “They’re ready for your interrogation.”

“It appears the little Mudblood doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.” Lucius mused with a sniff.

“Let’s see what the little bitch has to say, shall we?” Bellatrix happily gloated, practically bouncing in her seat.

“No…we’ll let Draco procure the information from us as he promised…this will be a little exercise in restraint.” Voldemort gently stated. His voice was somehow even more terrifying when used with such a soft inflection. He certainly had everyone’s attention. Just what was he planning?

The Dark Lord stood up, taking slow paced steps towards the young couple by the mantle. “Now my dear boy, you will be taught to rectify your errors. In doing so you will thank me later for stripping you of such weaknesses and doubts. You have great potential, young as you are.” 

Draco inclined his head with a respectful nod, doing everything possible to hold his tongue.

“This Mudblood is special to you, is she not?” 

Shit. “Y-yes sir.”

“So much that you absolutely refuse to share her?”

“Absolutely.”

Voldemort lazily drew his finger across Hermione’s collarbone, eliciting a shiver of terror through her. Draco’s eyes narrowed at his master but said nothing. “You would kill anyone who dared lay a hand on her, wouldn’t you?”

“I would.”

Voldemort’s hand clamped around her throat, standing behind her so that he could watch his young servants’ face. “Well now, we have a little problem then, don’t we?” he teased, a hiss in her ear causing her to jump.

Everyone waited with bated breath for what would come next.

“Tell me little witch, who is your master?” he breathed against her ear.

“No one.” She answered firmly.

“And therein lies the problem.” Voldemort concluded. “So let us play a little game. And the winner gets the Mudblood.”

Bellatrix squealed, clapping as the men exchanged looks and leers.

……………………………..

Bellatrix had her wand pointed at Draco, a Cruciatus primed on her lips as the Death Eaters surrounded Hermione. She watched her nephew’s stern eyes as Dolohov caressed her torso, outlining the scar he gave her as Fenrir licked her ear and trailed his tongue down her neck, snickering the whole while. 

Voldemort practically pranced back to his chair, going so far to kick his bare feet upon the fine dining table, a goblet in one hand and his wand twiddling between his fingers of the other. His wand being actually, Lucius’s wand, offered as a grand gesture of servitude and humility. Now Lucius had nothing but his cane and a snifter of firewhiskey to cart around. He and Snape exchanged a glance, neither participating in the “entertainment”.

“Yaxley and Crabbe will be displeased upon missing out.” He stated as a way to appear nonplussed over having to watch his son endure the curse again.

“They are on assignment.” Snape replied. A Death Eater’s job was never done.

“You may begin Bella.” Voldemort signaled with a flick of Lucius’s pilfered wand. 

The rules were simple, yet cruel: If Draco begged for mercy, he lost the right to Hermione. If Hermione begged for mercy, she lost the privilege to be Draco’s. The Veritaserum encouraged only the truth, so any protesting made would be legitimate. 

“Crucio!” Bella shouted, the well-prepped spell on target to his legs as he cried out in pain, fighting to remain standing. She was such a master of the spell she could control specific areas of the body to inflict the pain, not just the whole body.

One slice and the halter top was a useless strip of material falling to the floor, her chest bare only for a second before each breast was encompassed by a Death Eater’s hand. She winced against the werewolf’s claws but kept her teeth clamped tight. Uttering words such as ‘no, stop, don’t, please, and let go’ were automatically their favor.

And she certainly didn’t want to belong to either of them.

The only way to win was with silence.

Thighs burning with fire and prickling with twisting vines of thorns, Draco willed himself to endure. He’d trained against his aunt with this spell, if anything she had prepared him how to last. And he knew this wasn’t as bad as it could be, she was drawing it out, fully believing the girl would be the first to crack. But still, there was the issue of getting her nose nearly broken by the hands of a filthy Mudblood, so there was no mercy. There never had been. Day one of his training he’d been thrown into the deep end and was nearly drowned every day following until he managed to lash out and deflect.

But however trained one may be, torture was still torture. And Bellatrix Lestrange was a master at creating it, delivering it, and critiquing how it was done.

Draco watched helplessly as Hermione was molested by the two bastards that dared to make a claim. Hermione was his. She had been for years and was never aware, with him waiting for the right time to strike and take her for himself. The politics of the Ministry and the likes of Umbridge and his father had forced her so out of reach he all but gave up that he’d ever have her. And now, just barely after having her in his grasp he was watching the chance to maintain his claim slip by.

There was no way she’d be able to resist shouting her indignation and begging for the mercy that would never be delivered. She’d never been one to hold her tongue as she demonstrated earlier, answering his question for him. He hadn’t even tasted those lips of hers….  
………………………

She shot him with the stinging hex, the jelly legs curse, Diffindo and Confringo, alternating different areas of his body, manipulating the level of pain in each section. All the while she taunted him, insulting his prowess with his manhood, threatening to remove it should the Dark Lord deem it as useless as he was. She forced him to watch as Fenrir ripped the pants from Hermione’s body and his hand trailed between her thighs, coaxing whimpers and whines from the girl who refused to speak. 

She slashed him, blood mixing into his hair and staining the floor as he writhed from the spell, only for her to stop and kick him in the gut with the sharp toe of her boot. But through it all, he said nothing. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction, which only spurred her onward to find another means of pain to deliver.

Lucius had to give an air of disappointment as well as pride in his son for enduring his punishment. He’d been on the end of the Dark Lord’s wrath, he’d been thrown into Azkaban, he’d had his home systematically infiltrated and yanked out from underneath him, reducing him to nothing but a figurehead and he knew it. The return of his leader brought back a demon possessed by rage and bloodlust, exciting as it was at first it had all quickly gone south. That blasted Potter boy and his guardians, his followers, his fucking friends….and here was one, being used and abused as a way to teach his son to further improve his resistance to curses he would no doubt he dueling with come their final battle.

The little witch he met in Flourish and Blotts was gone, in her place a strong willed young woman with a martyr complex, taking two cocks-quite roughly-with a fire burning in her eye that even he had to give the slightest applaud to. Silently of course. He could see the allure she drew out in his son. A wild lion that just begged to be tamed. If she survived…

*TRIGGER*

With their dark lord’s nod of approval, Fenrir bent her over and lined his cock up against her arse, sliding it along to ease her open with the juices of his forceful fingering and spread her cheeks apart, entering the tight pink hole. As he inched his way in, she clenched her fist with nails drawing blood and tears in her eyes but no protests. Dolohov then took hold of her chin without being prodded; she opened her mouth, knowing what was coming.

Just occlude. Occlude. Occlude. Occlude. She chanted over in her mind. What was happening was being tossed into a steel chest, wrapped in chains, locks clicked in place and thrown into a dark pool of water, never to be revisited again.

Goyle and Nott egged them on, laughed, and spilled their drinks over themselves as they zapped her with minor stinging hexes just to get her jerk and bounce her tits. When her first two tormentors finished themselves they traded off, with the other two taking their delight in her body, the only hole being refused them being her pussy. After all, shouldn’t Draco get a reward if he lasted through the game?

*----------------*

Draco beat his fists against the floor and screamed, the pain now only secondary compared to the fury replacing his blood. He would kill each and every single one of those fuckers-Greyback especially-and then his crazy bitch of an aunt. Hell, he’d kill all the Death Eaters. Fuck the dark lord and his purist beliefs. Fuck Voldemort to the darkest depths of hell. And that goddamned snake too.

When Goyle and Nott finished themselves-rather quickly, he noted-she was then sat upon the dining table like a broken doll and slapped rather harshly by his uncle a few times, spitting degrading venom in her face. Other than that he didn’t touch her, scourgifying his hand for measure. She was pushed towards Snape, as he was expected to do something, anything. Trembling with her hands drawn across her chest she glared pure hatred at the man, ready to scream six years’ worth of vitriol in his face when he placed his hands on either side of her temples and cast Legilimens.

In a matter of seconds, the fierce, glorious unwavering Gryffindor was reduced to tears, covering her mouth as she went into hysterics, kicking her legs and banging on the tabletop all while shaking her head. The urge to release any resistance had her clamping her teeth into her own arm, canines into flesh, drawing blood in a keening whimper.  
Voldemort broke into laughter. Bellatrix stopped casting, giving Draco time to breathe and stare up at his godfather in absolute horrified wonder at what the man could’ve done to elicit such a response.

“Well….I didn’t think they’d last but it appears we found just the right motivation, didn’t we?” he gleamed with predatory teeth. He then swiveled in Lucius’s direction. “All is left for you sir.” He waved a hand out to Hermione as if offering a buffet.

“Were I not a married man I would partake in such favors.” The elder Malfoy stated, if he were tempted but protested loyalty to his beloved wife or merely said so as a way to not insult his master’s kind gift, Draco couldn’t say. Not that it mattered so long as he kept his hands off her. “She certainly has energy in spades.”

“Don’t be a coward Luce, you don’t have to fuck her to get her to scream.” His sister-in-law crooned. “Here!” she shouted, tossing him her goblin made knife cursed with dark magic. “Have at.”

Draco lurched forward. “D-” he stopped himself, internally cursing at taking such easily set bait. His aunt tilted her head down at him.

“What was that?” she asked, ever so politely, batting her lashes. “Doth the little dragon protest?”

“I do not.” He answered, spitting out blood and wiping his mouth.

“That’s what I thought.”

Lucius had taken up the cursed blade, giving it a slow once-over, making sure the little witch was watching, her eyes fixed on the instrument of her next torture. “Tell me, little Mudblood, have you changed your mind and chosen yourself a master?”

She sniffed back a tear. “Yes.”

“She doesn’t get to choose!” Bellatrix spat, ready to hex the witch within an inch of her life.

Voldemort held up his hand to quell his passionate general. “Pray tell, who here is the man you resign yourself to?”

“Malfoy.” She responded with a whisper.

Lucius placed the tip of the blade against the inner flesh of her left arm. She met his steel grey eyes, something that he didn’t expect, and an unflinching resolve settled over her. “Choose wisely witch, you have no idea what things I can do should I choose.”

“Malfoy.” She stated in a clearer voice, sitting upright.

She was daring him.

Draco held his breath, praying to the muggle god that he hoped was watching over her right now that Hermione knew what the fuck she was doing. Lucius drew he blade against her skin, just a single line. All she did was inhale sharply and tighten her body, but she did not blink.

Voldemort shifted in his seat, head turned ever so slightly, intrigued.

Oh shit. Not good.

Goaded into continuing his act, Lucius drew another line, one hand gripping her wrist and the other carving into her flesh. She hissed, bit her lip, tensed her body up and let out the occasional cries and screams, fighting every urge within to not knock deck the man who was giving her a more merciful treatment than the others. She knew this, especially following after Snape’s mental intrusion. She didn’t look at the bleeding limb, focusing only on the stormy eyes of the man before her who was much like his son and yet so different.

Her arm burned as if stung by a hundred wasps, doused in lemon juice, and then had salt rubbed in for good measure. It hurt with every breath, every muscle twitch, and she felt the blood trickle freely. She had the slightly giddy thought that he was ruining his perfectly good dining table with her so-called tainted muddy blood.

When he retracted the blade he stabbed it into the table right beside her, but she had long since lost the ability to be intimidated by such an act. Her eyes, not quite glazed, kept their aim upon his pale face, memorizing every feature about the once poised aristocrat. He didn’t scare her but what scared her was how far he had fallen in the course of servitude to the inhuman soulless ghoul that was the bane of her best friend’s existence. 

He held up her bloody arm to show her what it read.

Finally breaking her stoic gaze, her heart clenched at the oddly neat lettering sliced into her skin, spelling the name of her chosen master. 

“Ah well done Lucius.” The Dark Lord applauded. “Just what she wanted.”

“Who is your master?” the platinum blond demanded.

“M-Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” She choked out, the armor she’d envisioned around herself beginning to crumble. She couldn’t put up with much more of this. The truth potion still coursed through her and she’d been broken down enough that she was certain she wouldn’t be able to hold out any longer.

“And why him? Has he not abused you as well?”

God damn it, quit questioning her and put an end all this already! Draco screamed in his mind, leaning against the table for support.

Her face flushed pink, drawing her arms across herself though her modesty was long lost. She scrunched up her nose and pulled her lips tight, signs of fighting the effects of the enchanted liquid. “I….I have….ad-dmired him…in school…” she stuttered out, refusing to meet anyone’s eye. “He’s brilliant….he challenges me.”

There was a beat of silence in the room before Bellatrix broke it with a sharp cackle, slapping the table as the others started joining in. The entire room was in an uproar at her confession, giving her more shame than the assault or abuse. She’d just confessed to having admired the boy that bullied her for years in school. While sitting naked in his dining room table…

If there was ever the way to die of embarrassment, surely this would be it.

“Oh what a wasted opportunity we have here.” Voldemort drolled. “If we had known the Mudblood friend of Potter himself fancied you then we would’ve utilized her much sooner.” He looked up over at Snape from across the way. “What do you think Severus? Would she have failed Draco’s mission?”

“Absolutely not.” He snapped the response out quickly. “She doesn’t know how to fail. Top marks in all her classes. She can be of great use to you. Whatever you need of her, she can do.”

“Well, well well.” The dark lord mused with delight. “I think we may have use for her yet. Draco, take your toy away now.” He dismissed with a lazy wave. “See to that training and you might just earn that rightful place by my side.”

“Yes sir.” He replied formally, having regained most of the control in his body. He had to keep standing, keep the tremors at bay, and just get to his room with her. 

They’d be safe in there. For now.  
………………………….


	8. Claimed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Hermione’s secret is out, Draco has so many questions, and feelings. He goes about getting those answers in the best way he knows how.

Narcissa had spent her time gathering healing potions and supplies, knowing they would be needed. She’d ordered his elves Tipper and Willy to stand guard at his door and summon her the instant they arrived. Even from the distance of the dining room from her place on the balcony of her chambers she could hear the ruckus laughter and screams. She shut her eyes, but there would be no occluding with shrill cries like that ringing in her ears.

How long she stayed out there, she had no idea. Just counting stars and running through all the names that had been passed down in her family, and those yet to be used, the twinkling lights holding so much inspiration when suddenly there was a pop! and Willy bowed respectfully. She was already following before he could apologize for his intrusion, throwing open her doors and marching through the halls to find her son-bloody and panting with exhaustion-carrying the nude and abused body of the Granger girl.

He had not his wand-technically Granger’s-and thus had to carry her physically out of the dining hall and through the foyer and up the stairs before slumping against his door. The elves immediately levitated both young adults and directed them into his bathroom suite. Granger was delicately placed in the tub, water started with Murtlap Essence poured right in. They started working on cleaning her wounds as Narcissa tended to Draco’s laceration across the back of his scalp, then helped him undress and slip into the tub along with the girl, who’d fallen into catatonia.

Draco shifted himself and pulled Hermione into his lap so she could lean against his chest, gently pouring water over her. Narcissa sat on a cushioned stool, holding her left arm out of the water so the paste Tipper applied would settle into her skin properly and give it a chance to settle in.

“Father did that.” He said after a long silence. “He and Snape chose not to violate her. Uncle Rodolphus was too disgusted to touch her…but the others….” He trailed off, torn between wanting to break down and weep for what he witnessed and wanting to leap out of the tub and hex the lot of them to hell.

“Was it enough?” she asked, clasping the limp hand of Hermione’s.

“I believe so.” He stated honestly. The whims of the Dark Lord were mercurial and tempestuous at best. Tomorrow he might change his mind and order Draco to execute her. But for now, it seemed that tonight’s game had bought them time.

“He’s going to make me betray the Order.” Hermione’s detached voice spoke up.

Narcissa lifted the girl’s chin to meet her wounded eyes. “We will get through this. Whatever means necessary. Constant vigilance.”

Hermione blinked, clarity coming back into her eyes. “My coin?”

“It was found among your clothing. The elves should’ve returned it when they laundered. I have the feeling that galleon is special…”

“It is.” She answered.

“Then remember those words. And do what is needed. There are no sides when it comes to survival.”

“Mother, is it safe to say such things?” Draco peered over her shoulder with a worried expression.

“I warded the room myself. You may speak freely. Come up with a plan.” She instructed them. “I’ll see to preparing your bed.”

When she exited the bathroom, elves in tow, the two were aware they were being given privacy. Hermione was suddenly quite nervous at being in Draco’s arms, in a tub no less. “You can let go now.” She said.

“I think not.” He replied, tightening his arm’s hold. “I believe I’m due an explanation on some things.”

“I don’t care what you believe; I’m not subjecting myself to anymore humiliation tonight.”

He moved her hair aside so he could nuzzle her ear. “I had no idea that was going to happen. I thought it was going to just be me, like it has been. I wanted to kill all of them. No one gets to touch you that way.”

Her faced reddened. “You apparently had very little say in the matter. You can’t protect me. Hell, you can barely protect yourself.”

“Give me something to work with Hermione; you know what you need to do.”

“Don’t you dare use my name.” she hissed, trying to pull away from him.

“Hermione.” He purposely purred. “My Hermione.”

“Stop it.” She whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Don’t play with me like this.”

He kissed her neck. “But what if…I too have admired you in school?”

The arm wrapped around her torso slid up the middle of her chest, between her breasts and resting over her heart. His thumb swept across in a gentle caress. “What if…I said the things I said to try to keep you away from me?”

“Then you knew this was coming…you knew years before any of us.” She countered, still wary of his touch. Although her statement wasn’t entirely true. She knew something had been coming as well, even before their encounter at the Quidditch World Cup.

“I did.” He promptly answered. “It’s all my father talked about as he prepared me for Hogwarts. He knew Potter would be arriving in our first year and wanted me to get close. When that didn’t work my assignment changed, especially when you and Weasley kept to his side. Even now, with you here, my assignment has changed. Now I’m charged with breaking into your mind like those bumbling fools did with Gringott’s and retrieving Order information.” He scooped up some water and let it drip over her chest.

“But…I’d rather you just let me in…” his voice lowered into that seductive lure, with a delicate kiss to the back of her neck. “We could just make this easier on ourselves…”

She turned her head away. “Why don’t just order me to suck your cock and then slap me around like the rest of your family? Why bother seducing me?”

His hand trailed over her breast, gently massaging. Against her will she whimpered just enough to be heard.

“Ah…that. Right there.” He paused. “I’d rather hear that sound.”

Every part of her that had been grabbed, scratched, or brutalized in some way, he swept his hand over almost lovingly, almost like he was erasing the previous touches.

“Tell me you’d rather make that sound.” He begged of her. “I can make you sing and see stars rather than cry and curl into darkness. Just let me show you.”

Hermione was certain that the heat of the water, the steaming air around them, and his brazenly hot body pressed against hers were all contributing factors to her not having the strength to turn him down. With her head resting against his shoulder and left arm on the rim of the tub, she brought her right arm up, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck as he instructed. His left hand massaged her breast as his right hand trailed down her torso, softly tracing the Dolohov scar, down her hip, over her thigh, and then tickled the soft skin of her inner thigh.

He was all too aware of the brutal intrusion by the claws of the werewolf, so he made sure to use the most delicate of touches, the lightest of presses, and the softest drags of his fingernails. Even so, she flinched and tried to press her thighs together, so he lightly swept his hand across the top, back and forth, coaxing the trembling muscle to relax, all while still caressing her throat and chest with his other hand.

Rule one of seduction: utilize both hands at all times.

A soft nibble and she sighed. Music to his ears.

An ever so gentle twist of a nipple and she gasped. Harmonious.

And the slow-yet-sure ascent of his hand from her thigh to that sweet juncture, the feather-like petting of her womanly slit and she spasmed, briefly, before relaxing and allowing him to delve within, parting the petals of a rose to reach the tight bud at the center.

“Oh!”

Jackpot.

One finger led to two, moving together, moving apart, feeling her body thrum and undulate to the swells and surges as she grabbed the hair at the back of his head, completely unaware of the wound nearby but other than a hiss between his teeth he did not let on that she was causing him any pain. Right now, this was about her.

He rained kisses along her shoulder, causing her to roll her neck and arch her back, her fingers threading through his snowy white hair as she widened her thighs to allow him deeper access, eyes rolling in the back of her head when he somehow managed to reach that deeper place and true to his word, the sound that came out of her mouth was a high pitch keen and her vision went white. Her legs trembled as she clamped around him, his talented fingers still rubbing that spot, riding out the orgasm to its fullest.

“Ohmygod….” She panted as her body turned to jelly and she began to slide down his chest. He slid his arm in under her breasts to hold her upright. Her head cocked up at him, eyes half lidded with satiated arousal, lips parted with a heavy breath had Draco at war with himself. The war between diving into those lips and losing himself completely or saying something awfully snarky to bring them back to reality when he caved.

Fuck it, might as well take the chance I have…

Rule two of seduction: put those lips and tongue to work!

Cradling her jaw with his left hand, he kept her head tilted up at him and leaned down, capturing her mouth with his own. He knew she was in shock, vulnerable, ashamed and angry at her ordeal and it was a bastard move, but he was a selfish opportunist. Moments like this were too rare to let slip by. Those lips, that drove him insane all through school, constantly moving, reciting textbook quotes, ranting about her idiot friends, smiling because of her idiot friends-but never at him-and looking delectable as she nibbled them when she studied had tempted him one too many times.

When he pulled back he felt a jolt in his chest, a pair of wide bright brown eyes glistening and confused were imploring him for an explanation. One he couldn’t give. “You’re welcome.” He said, bringing a hand up to wipe the salty tears clinging to her lashes with the warm water of their bath.

“How’s your arm?” he inquired a moment later, bringing her attention away from her lust swollen lips and to the appendage that would forever mark her. Truth be told, she’d momentarily forgotten about it. Malfoy had certainly proven to be talented in the art of distraction. But the sight of the green crusted paste that he started dripping water onto and gently dabbing brought more tears.

“Why’d he have to do this?” she cried, watching as he washed the tender red skin.

“Would you have rather he bent you over the dining table and had a go?” he growled. “I don’t think I could him in the eye after that.”

“Like I can look anyone in the eye after this…”

A pair of fingers swept her chin up, grey eyes meeting brown. “Heh, what do ya know…looking me right in mine.”

“That doesn’t count!” she snapped, jerking away from him.

He scoffed. “No, course it doesn’t. You outta stop biting the hand that feeds you, considering we both just endured a fair amount of torture just so that you could end up with me. You had your choice and I was it.” His finger slid between the velvety ribbon of the choker still adorning her neck. “And I want to know why, and how long, Hermione Granger,” he curled his finger and pulled her towards him, “That you’ve fancied me.”

She rankled at his smug tone. Now she was never going to hear the end of it. “I never said I fancied you. Admired. It’s different. And I told you I wasn’t going into this with you tonight. And I’d like to get out now.”

“All right.” He agreed. The water was lukewarm and slightly pink. She scooted forward towards the faucet, giving him plenty of room to lift himself out. Against her better judgement, out of sheer morbid curiosity, she turned her head caught an eyeful of pale Malfoy butt cheek as he sauntered over to the towels and wrapped one around himself. When he turned around he was grinning ear to ear.

“Like what you see?” he teased, knowing full well she’d taken a peek.

“How are you not still having tremors?” she deftly changed the subject.

His eyes darkened. “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time? Having tea on the terrace? I’ve been trained dearest, trained to endure it longer than most can handle and how to use it in creative ways. Yes, it still hurts like a sonofabitch. Every time.” He squatted low so that they were eye level.

“You were brilliant. So good.” He plucked up a tendril of her hair and idly wrapped it around his finger. “I’m proud of you. Now come on out of there and let’s have something to eat.”

……………………..

It was oddly endearing, seeing a tray laden not only with two plates of food and drinks, but a row of potions vials all neatly marked for their purpose, placed beside chosen nightclothes as if they were some honeymooning couple at a high-end resort.

She wasted no time in taking the offered Blood Replenishing potion, the pain relief potion, and the bruise cream Draco had made his personal task of applying on her. She turned her back to him and ate her meal, sitting in the bathrobe, trying to understand the person that Draco Malfoy was. Until now, he’d never given her the impression he ever spared her a second thought, that she was just a bug to be squashed when in his presence. For him to say now, that he had admired her from afar didn’t make sense. It must’ve been one of his ploys in order for her to let her guard down with him.

He could say whatever he wanted, it didn’t change the fact that he was her captor, her tormentor, and now oddly, her rescuer.

He still had a job to do.

And if she wanted to survive this, she was going to have to play along. The rule of the game was simple: do what it takes to survive.

Somehow, the idea of surviving what just happened between her and Draco in the tub felt more daunting than what occurred in the dining room. Torture of the cruelest kind she was prepared for, mentally she had prep-talked herself that if she were ever caught things like this would happen. It happened in every war. Her gender was always considered a commodity for the oppressors, spoils to do with as they pleased. She wasn’t naïve to the fact although it came as a shock that these so-called purists who considered her less than human and her blood somehow tainted was not so off-putting to ram their cocks into.

However uncomfortable it had been, Draco had done her a favor her first day here. If not for his intervention she would’ve already been brutalized by the werewolf and may not even be alive now-or worse-pregnant with a psycho’s cub.

She shivered.

“Cold?”

His voice pulled her from her dark musings. She wished he didn’t sound actually concerned.

“I need to wrap your wound now.” He said, pulling up a gauze bandage and a tiny bottle of dittany. Whatever concoction the elf smeared on her arm alleviated the burn but it still ached. Lucius hadn’t gashed her arm, more or less just sliced the topmost layers of skin enough to draw blood and pain. She supposed he could very well cut her arm off if had wanted. With her sleeve pulled back he dabbed the precious healing agent on the red slice marks, marveling at how his father was still able to have neat “hand writing” when wielding a knife. He laid the gauze patch across the word and then set to wrapping it.

“Infection is worse than any curse.” He proclaimed. It was a well-known fact, but it still caught her off guard that he bothered to mention it at all. All the same, she’d rather not become septic and delirious and feel her body die all around her due to neglect of her injuries. Then he took her other arm-the one she’d bitten herself-and applied the dittany.

  
“Didn’t know you were a biter.” He smirked for a second, searching her eyes as she watched him tend to her. She was starting to become detached again, closing herself off from him. He couldn’t let that happen, not yet. “Lucky for you I don’t mind it either.”

No response.

He brought his hand up and swept some hair away from her face, letting his thumb linger near her bottom lip. He pressed against the plush muscle of skin, parting them and dipping his thumb in just far enough to graze against her teeth. “If you want…” he offered.

Was this some sort of olive branch with him?

But she’d never bitten anyone before, until yesterday when she clamped onto his hand trying to regain control of her wand. She looked down and saw the faint indentions doting across the meat of his thumb, a vivid reminder of their fight. Right before he slapped her into the kitchen cabinet. She pulled away from him, leaving his hand to fall in refusal.

He didn’t look disappointed, amused actually if she had to guess. “There’s an art to it of course, applying just the right amount of pressure, depending what your partner prefers. I bet you’ve rarely dabbled in that, am I right? Well, there’s no time like the present to learn.”

“What are you doing?” she demanded flatly.

“Well, to be perfectly honest, I can do whatever I want with you, as I am now your master. But I thought we’d explore a few kinks…get to know each other in the way we certainly haven’t before-”

“I’ve no intention of being your plaything tonight, not after what I just went through. You think you could possibly give me a single night to not be at your mercy? What happened in the tub has no bearings here.” She pulled the bathrobe tighter around herself and turned her head away. There was nothing she wanted more than a draught of dreamless sleep to see her through the night.

His eyes hardened. “After what happened tonight, that is exactly why.” When she didn’t respond, he continued. “I have to reclaim you or else the memory of what they’ve done will cause you to recoil from anyone touching you, and I can’t have you flailing and fighting when I’m supposed to be earning your obedience.”

A snort of indignation whistled through her nose at the word ‘reclaim’.

“And yes, what happened in the tub does have bearing here. I want you to trust that I’m not going to be violent or cruel. There’s no need for that right now. Just you, me, and the knowledge that we’re not going to be interrupted for the rest of the evening.” Her hands fidgeted in her lap. “I can make you feel good about it, enjoy it. I know you’re new to this, and it can be gentle. You’ll need to learn this about your own body as well as my own, what you like, what I like. Sometimes, it’s not something that can be told, it just needs to happen.”

She sighed. “Jesus fucking Christ.” She shook her head. “How did it ever come to this?” A tear rolled from her eye. The snobbish boy she met when she was eleven was now Master and Owner of her body and mind and freedom, and she’d more than likely never leave the grounds of Malfoy Manor until they buried her on some obscure patch of their property-if she was lucky. All things considered she was awfully lucky right now to be allowed back into this posh and padded room, with a bath and food and medical aid rather than being thrown into the dank cell to suffer, and he was extending a rare-if ever shown-side of what could be called gentlemanly grace. He didn’t have to give her any pleasure, but yet he was insisting that she experience it. From him.

“I just need your obedience. I’m not asking you to love me.”

No, that would be too much wouldn’t it? Even pretending to have feelings in that realm was dangerous. Love was far too fragile a thing that could easily be wielded into a weapon. And she was a weapon, a soldier for the Order of the Phoenix, righteous and loyal to the cause, her mission was to protect Harry, aid in the destruction of Horcruxes, and bring Voldemort down. There was no place for love amidst a war, even if her body needed to become a tool for survival. The Order members would understand, that she did what she needed to do to survive, even if she had given up information.

The ends justify the means.

And if giving herself to Malfoy was the route, then by God, she would see it through.

She took a moment to occlude away all thoughts of Ron and Harry, how she felt for them, how they would feel about this, and of their future.

“Alright Malfoy. My obedience.” She solemnly replied after a little stretch of silence.

……………………………

Godric bless the makers of Firewhiskey, Hermione thought, thoroughly warmed and feeling the edge of being light-headed. She had grimaced at her first sip, undiluted and of course high quality, stronger than anything she’d ever imbued before. Spiked mugs of Christmas cider and wedding punch paled in comparison to the liquid fire this amber beverage was, and Draco just knocked it back like it was chilled tea.

Obviously, he’d been training his body how to handle liquor as well as curses.

After her first glass he filled it right back up before she could protest, and urged her to continue sipping and adjusting to its sting until there was a comfortable numbness. To pass the awkward silence, Draco had shifted how he sat on the bed and started speaking of the first time he nicked it from his father’s cabinet with fellow Slytherin pal Blaise Zabini, and that they drank themselves into sickness thinking they could hold their own.

It felt good to see her smile, to hear those little smirky laughs as she cradled the alcohol and settled into a comfortable position beside him. As long as he kept to positive subjects, good memories, something funny to ease the tension. But Salazar knew what the fuck had happened in this past year in their own lives, and he feared there was hardly a subject safe to broach.

“How bout the muggles? How’s their liquor?” he asked, honestly half curious.

“They make a far wider variety than what I’ve seen offered in pubs here.” She stated. “Bartending is a huge business; people treat it in the same regards as being a Potion Master.”

“Get the fuck out of here. You serious?” he laughed. Potion Mastery was held in high regard, because of the complexity of certain brews, the dedication it took to make the perfect Draught of Living Death, for instance…One required a vast knowledge of all the ingredients needed ranging from plants-and all their properties-to animal parts, samples from magical creatures, and the varying cauldrons, mixing rods, how the potion needed to be stored and how long it could last under a stasis charm. It was hard fucking work.

And to think muggles did all that just for their alcohol.

“It’s one of the oldest industries of human kind. Once humans evolved from hunter-gatherers to farmers, harvesting wheat, corn, and grapes, they discovered that fermented fruits and other liquid concoctions stored in a cool dark place allowed for a pleasant beverage. Mead, ale, wine…along with olive oil and the cultivation of honey are some of the first skills of domesticated living.”

He sat and listened. Even buzzed, she rambled facts of life with clarity and confidence. She was animated, speaking with her hands, sharing the knowledge as easily as one shared a chocolate frog among mates. What he’d mistaken for snooty know-it-allness had actually just been a passion for obtaining and bequeathing information. She understood the mechanics of the brewing process, the properties of transfiguration, and the subtle wrist flicks required with charms. He doubted she sat around and gossiped over who was considered attractive since the slightest whisper of her fancying him would’ve spread like fiendfyre.

He would’ve exploited that to his full advantage otherwise.

Granger fancies me? Well let’s just see about that….

Disillusion himself and lay in wait, pull her off into an old unused classroom and confront her, tease her, corner her and she her reaction…

Find out just what was under those unflattering school issued robes and what it took to get them off in the first place….

And now she was in his bedroom, in a bathrobe, willing to let him bed her properly….

Merlin, for all the fuck ups he’d done in his young life, he couldn’t ever recall having done something so right to be blessed with this fantasy come to life.

He leaned over and nuzzled her neck with his nose, just to gage her reaction. Naturally she dipped her head down and brought her shoulder up to block him, but it wasn’t done with malice. There’d been a squeak-like sound from her throat and another nervous sip of her whiskey. It wouldn’t be too much more now.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” he inquired after she concluded her wealth of knowledge regarding the brewing of alcohol.

“Technically, you just did.” She snickered into her glass.

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, cheeky. But in truth…tell me, why were you wearing Slytherin knickers when you arrived here?”

She tossed her head back with a sigh. “Oh I knew that was bound to pop up.” From the way she sighed it sounded like there a story to go along with it. He poured just a touch more amber liquid in her glass as she had a hand covering her eyes, licking her lips as she contemplated on how to answer. “Fine. I suppose. Since that’s all I’m ‘lowed to wear now.”

He refrained from fueling her ire and remained silent.

“Well, camping is fine for a weekend, maybe even a duration of the summer, but not a whole year on the run.” She began, to what sounded like an epic tale about to be told. “And there’s only so much of one person’s cooking you can handle before you start going barmy. We tried rotating the chore. Harry didn’t want to be burdened with it because he was the most experienced; the Dursely’s practically turned him into a maid soon as he could walk on his own.”

Interesting, he knew next to nothing about Potter’s home life.

“And with dentists for parents, all my family’s meals were planned with calorie intake and proper proportions and the amount of seasonings measured to the gram and the boys were always reaching for more salt, calling it bland. But my god, it was better than Harry’s overuse of lard, greasing every pan to the nines. And when it was Ron’s turn, he was pissing and moaning about how much of an inconvenience it was like a pureblood snob raised with a wand in his mouth and used too much flame on the range and it just so happened to be MY laundry day-all my clothes were hanging up to dry having been washed earlier, and before you say anything-” she pointed a finger at him warningly, “I was trying to conserve the use of magic, so anything that could be done by hand was, and then half the tent was in flames, and so were my knickers.”

His eyes widened as he took her slightly wavering finger in his face as a sign of her intoxication, and could barely contain the laugh that burped out, before giving in and bringing the back of hand to his mouth to prevent himself from spewing his whiskey out. She started chuckling to, looking back on it now.

She heaved a sigh and rolled the glass around in her hand. “Didn’t have much in coin, so we went to a rummage shop in the closest town…and they had a pack in my size…and that was it.” She explained dejectedly. “It’s one thing, being able to borrow their shirts and such…but ladies knickers…and unfortunately, bearing snake pride. I figured since no one ever sees them, no one will know.”

He downed the last of his alcohol, taking her glass from her hand and finishing the last swallow’s worth. Her speech wasn’t slurred, but slow in cadence and her eyes glossy, cheeks rosy, and lips parted in a half-hearted smile. It was terribly hilarious in his opinion, and it took all he had to not double over and guffaw like an uncivilized peasant at the tale, but no amount of forced calm could prevent the snickers from slipping out as they shared one moment of real joy.

……………………..

Sweet Salazar’s sweaty sac, she was such a specimen of female anatomy, a perfect mixture of curves and athletic muscle although a tad too skinny. He’d managed to coax her out of the robe, and untied his but left it on. She needed to become accustomed to his hands first and foremost. Beginning with her neck and trailing down, he made sure to touch every part of her with some part of his body.

Rule three of seduction: the hands and mouth in tandem make a lethal combination

Despite her wooden approach at first she offered no resistance, moving with him as he adjusted her against the pillows, murmuring little directions for her to twist to the side or scoot her arm, or lift her hips. It reminded him of his first time with a virgin, having just enough experience under his belt to take the lead. But when he dipped his head low for a kiss, she turned her face away, giving him access to her neck but not her lips. He’d work on that later. She still held enough cognitive ability to push him away if he crossed some imaginary boundary.

Hell, he was crossing all their boundaries, imagined or not.

He had separated himself from it yesterday, running on auto-pilot as it were, and was in far too much pantomime for show to go at her as he wished. By then he’d already run through a series of emotions and was still coming to grips with them when he woke up with a blade at his heart. For one sweet second, he wanted her to do it. It would’ve been justified and easy, ending both their pain. With him dead the choker would no longer bind her; she’d retrieve her wand and blast his ancestral home to splinters in a fabulous exit worthy of heroic poems, corpses of Death Eaters at her feet as she walked away from a raging fire.

A fitting way to die.

He’d been torn between wanting that to be a one-off and praying he’d get the chance he was savoring now, going slow and learning her body, listening to her sounds, feeling her spasms and proving to her he wasn’t some monster…like Greyback. He pocketed thoughts of the werewolf away for later, lingering on that lupine fucktwat would only bring out his aggression, and she’d had enough of that. And so he worshipped the warrior lioness’s body like the sculpted art it was, leaving no inch of skin untouched no matter how erogenous it may or may not be.

Her body would learn its master’s touch.

She had gripped the sheets, grabbed for a pillow, even pulled her own hair as she struggled with handling the pleasure coursing through her until he took her hands and placed them against his chest.

“Whatever you feel, take it out on me.” he instructed.

At first, she curled her hands into little balls and clenched them tight, but one touch of a certain sensitive spot and she jerked upright, fingers splayed across his pectorals and sunk her claws in. A tremor of delight rippled through him, it’d been too long since he’d engaged in any sexual exploits. The stress of Hogwarts oppressive atmosphere and new regime begged for a release but provided none. The air was rank with fear and pain and rumors of assaults happening were being swept under the rug by the Carrows. He doubted the girl he did manage to find an empty broom closet with would be able to handle the amount of pent-up aggression coursing through his body, and might come out claiming to be attacked.

He eased into her gently, and yet she still whimpered and tensed up, almost crying as she latched onto his arm like an anchor. Greyback would die, yes he would. For touching this beautiful witch and defiling her with his filthy claws. Every movement was calculated at an even pace, in cadence with her breathing, watching as the discomfort ebbed away into enjoyment. The little mewls escaping betrayed her as she tried clamping her hands over her mouth to keep them in as he rocked her.

Distracting her with a flick of his tongue across a nipple, she surprisingly grabbed his neck and clung to him as he brought attention to the soft mounds of flesh. One hand threaded fingers through his hair, pulling, scratching, digging into his scalp and the other punctuated his clavicle and the tendon in his throat, driving his eyes back into his head for a minute. Then he pulled a surprising move by rolling onto his back, settling her upright and bucking his hips upwards that had her gasping and placing her hands against his shoulders for support.

His hands roved her thighs, her buttocks, her waist, rotating her so she could feel even more of him, groaning in guttural breaths and half formed words and prayers. “That’s it.” He encouraged, hearing that pitch rise higher and higher until she’d all but become a nightingale blasting the night sky with a song to serenade the stars. Her nails clawed him, his pale chest now reddened by the scratches, smacks, and fingernails digging in like a cat and refusing release.

He managed to peel one hand and slide it up to his own throat, pressing her palm against his Adam’s apple and holding it there, telling her it was okay to take her pound of flesh. Almost completely lost to her passion, she did. Squeezed and dug in, the more her pleasure climbed the harder her fingers wrapped around him. His vision blurred with glistening sparks at the corner of each eye, that tingle in his body signaling for his release when she clamped down on him so tightly he felt his soul expelled from his body for a second, her whole body exploding with unearthly sensations, enveloping him in her gravitational pull until he too was falling into the black hole, his seed gushing up into her as his lungs felt ready to burst.

When she collapsed on his chest, weeping in post orgasmic rapture, body thrumming and twitching, her fingers finally released his abused flesh and he swallows a deep breath. So spent, he didn’t even have it in him to roll her off him and just allowed her to use him as a pillow as he softened. Sharing wheezing breaths he ran one hand along her back, petting her like a feline, she tucked herself around him for security.

“Fucking Merlin….that was fantastic. You’re a natural.” He sighed, his mind in jumble over the fact that the prudish, virginal swot he knew in school just rocked his world. She breathed out a little giggle at the praise, trying to figure out what exactly this meant now, because there would certainly be no stopping him from wanting this again…and she had to admit, it felt a thousand times better than the first time.

He sighed and ran his hand through her hair. It was all too easy to fall into the pretense that this was as it should be, spending Easter Hols with his beautiful girlfriend at his home before returning to Hogwarts to finish their N.E.W.T.S. and O.W.L.S. in study groups with a handful of swotty Ravenclaws and his closest mates, nudging each other’s foot under the table, counting down the sand in the hourglass until they could run off and find an alcove or empty classroom to ravish each other again. A couple months left of that blissful bubble until they had to enter the real world and select their careers-

As if there wasn’t a war going on as they lay spent, a war on blood prejudice and power, with some crazed noseless fuck trying to kill a teenage boy to secure his rule.  
His eyes felt wet. Sometimes they did, if the asphyxiation was that strong. He’d had it happen a time or two, but now, this was not one of them.

………………………………..

Tuesday, April 7th, 1998

Morning brought about a new Malfoy facet; cuddling and clutching onto her possessively, with a hard on pressing against her rear end. She was completely naked, as was he, and somehow in the middle of the night they’d finally disengaged themselves and slipped under the covers. Even stranger was the comfort it brought, and that she suffered no nightmares. At least, no monsters. She wasn’t sure if hauntingly beautiful grey eyes and whispered praises should count as a good dream.

He curled himself around her, providing no avenue for escape and pressed lips against her spine. She stiffened at first, then relaxed when he did his nuzzling thing and expelled a sigh. It struck her odd that he was unexpectedly affectionate in his sleep. She imagined if it wasn’t her his arms were wrapped around it would be a large teddy bear. Or whatever the wizarding equivalent was. A dragon. Yeah, definitely a plush squishy dragon.

Like a dragon hoarding a treasure…

“Thinking so hard this early is proven to cause brain damage.” He stated in a surly, matter-of-fact voice.

“Maybe for you.” She retorted, feeling her body rock with his amused chuckle.

“Just living here does that.” He groused, not even bothering to downplay the remark to a joke. It didn’t take being the Brightest Witch in her Age to figure that out. A madman hell-bent on maintaining immortality was taking residence and torturing his own henchmen for entertainment.

She closed her eyes and swallowed her pride. “Alright, ask me something. I’ll tell you what I know.”

Instead she felt more petting. “I’d rather enjoy this while I can.”

Enjoy this?

He sounded so remorseful and honest, she was tempted to turn around and confront him. But, if he was being truthful she didn’t want to ruin the moment. To be frank, she was rather enjoying this too. A least the giant snake wasn’t barging in here and dragging her off to parts unknown. A shiver rippled through her, causing Draco to stop. “Are you alright?”

Oh, he must think it’s a pain tremor.

“I’m fine. Was just being thankful I’m not receiving the same morning call as yesterday.”

“Mmmph.” He groaned against her shoulder.

“Uh…Malfoy…are you always like this in the morning?” she asked nervously, trying not to move and entice him.

He chuckled. Then brushed up against her. “Oh you mean like this?” he teased. “Yeah it comes with the anatomy. Helps that I’m wrapped around a warm little witch with a perky little arse.”

“Malfoy!” she admonished, not amused.

“You’re going to refer to me by my given name, unless I require deference of my title, is that understood?” he ordered, all playful hints of his tone gone.

“Fine. Whatever you say.” She growled. It wasn’t a satisfactory response she discovered, as she was quickly rolled onto her back with him looming over her.

“Obedience my pet, remember? Or do I need to fuck that into your head until the peacocks in the garden can hear you scream my name?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “No need to be a vulgar git. Dray-co.” She exaggerated the syllables of his name.

He laid his head upon her breast, using it as his pillow. “Good girl. Keep that in mind…..Tell me how the Patronus messaging works.”

“You have to be able to produce a corporeal Patronus. Until you can do that, there’s no point in telling you the rest.”

He turned his cheek and sank his teeth on the soft flesh, causing her to buck and cry out. “What the fuck Draco, I told you!” She cried, rubbing the tender spot he’d just clamped onto.

“You think the Dark Lord is going to be satisfied with a bitchy answer like that? Quit playing hard-to-get and just tell me already.”

“Fine! You have to have a genuine happy thought to produce it, and once it takes its shape, you can direct it to send a message to someone, just like a Howler. It speaks with your voice, plus being whatever animal form it takes helps identify who it belongs to.”

“And what’s yours?”

She blinked several times. That was an unexpected detail she hadn’t foreseen. “It’s…an otter. They’re a symbol of grace, empathy, happiness and never-ending curiosity.”

He harrumphed. “Fitting. Do you pick them?”

“No, they just appear. It’s like…an animal spirit. It might even be what you’d be if you became an Animagus. On that, it’s just a theory though.”

He seemed contemplative for a moment. “If I gave you your wand, could you make one?”

“What?” She started pushing him off so she could sit up. “What the hell for?” Then her eyes widened. “Oh no…No, I will NOT send for help and lure Order members here.”

“Relax, that’s not what I had in mind. But when I tell him this, he’s going to want a demonstration.”

She grabbed his shoulders. “I can’t do that! If I send a message to anyone they’re going to come here for me. It’ll be a trap! Draco please don’t do this; don’t make me do this…” She couldn’t bear the thought of becoming the next Sirius. Harry would never recover if she died due to his actions.

He placed a hand on top of hers. “Think of a decoy message. Some sort of code word they’ll know so not to come despite the message. Did you guys plan one?”

There it was, that brilliant mind of his at work. Oh what an ally he would’ve made. “Yeah, we have a word just in case we’ve been compromised. It’s been three days so I’m pretty sure they’ve figured that out by now-”

“Or they think you’re dead.” He finished for her. She slowly nodded.

“Fuck, send one now, let them know you’re alright but to ignore the next one from you.” He pulled her wand out from under his pillow and placed it in her hand. “Do it now.” He ordered.

She was slack-jawed for a moment, before shaking herself out of her stupor and closed her eyes, envisioning her Happy Thought. That strange cream colored envelope with a letter inside, informing her that she was indeed a witch and required to attend a new school meant for others like herself, a school for witchcraft. In that moment, she was validated, vindicated that she was not a freak, not alone in the strange happenings in her youth. She’d meet others like herself.

“Expecto Patronum.” She whispered, summoning for the silvery, ghost like otter form the tip of her wand. Draco’s face was awestruck. “Harry, Ron, I’m alive but captive at Malfoy Manor. You’ve got to trust me, but ignore whatever next Patronus you receive from me, no matter what it says, what you hear. It’ll more than likely be under duress.  
Wrackspurts. And guys…Draco…” he met his eyes, waiting for him to silence her or something, but it didn’t happen. “He’s helping me…”

The otter swam in the air around them before becoming a comet-like streak that slipped out through the frame of the window and beyond.

“That was…amazing.” He was breathless.

She regarded him with sheer dumbstruck curiosity. “Just who are you Draco? You…you’re going against You-Know-Who…and this-” she held up her wand, eyes dancing between it and him. “And last night….”

“I told you, I want to end this war and will do what it takes. You’ve seen it firsthand here, this isn’t winning. This is house of horror, blood of innocents have seeped into the floorboards, endless rounds of “training” and punishments-of which there is no distinction-and all for what? To prove that my kind is somehow better than yours?” He shook his head. “I only wish I’d seen it sooner. Known since before fourth year that bringing him back was the goal, and it wasn’t until the end of fifth year that I realized I was on the wrong side.”  
…………………………

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be noted that this isn't the best way to handle a situation like that, but remember Draco is only seventeen and has no idea on the proper knowhow so he goes about it in the way he believes is right. Obviously Hermione endured a trauma, I'm not making light of that. But she also has the mindset to compartmentalize what happened and not let it break her. She realizes what Draco is trying to do and allows it, and in a way it helped but by no means was a magical cure. She's doing what she needs to survive and will continue to do so and make some choices that may seem out of character but this is my story and as the writer I control the elements within.  
> I won't stand for my writing to be insulted merely because I've written something that seems unbelievable. Well excuse me sweetheart, this is fiction-and this is a fanfiction site-and half the shit people write isn't believable in the slightest but that's part of the reason why we love it. And if you think what Hermione's doing isn't believable now then buckle up because in a few chapters she's going to own that ass of yours.


	9. Obey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione now has to prove she’s an obedient pet. She shows Draco exactly how good she can be…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork provided by https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaymondShaw/pseuds/RaymondShaw
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/29067369/chapters/71482503

Tuesday, April 7th, 1998

She was standing in the stall of the shower, letting the hot water pelt her body, left arm covered in a shielding spell so not to sog up the bandage and wash away the healing ointment when she felt the cold rush of air indicating the frosted glass door had been pulled open. If her eyes weren’t already closed she would’ve rolled them.

“A little privacy?” she singsonged, working shampoo into her hair-which she hadn’t had the luxury of doing for over a month. The alien sensation of another pair of hands working tender long fingers against her scalp almost had her jumping out of her skin before settling back down and allowing the ministrations to continue.

“I did always wonder how much of your budget was dedicated to hair care alone.”

She let out a little snort. Honestly, she did have to save her galleons for a decent bottle of just the right kind of cleaning agent to handle thick, unruly, curly and wavy strands of thirsty hair prone to split ends and the occasional dry scalp. It had been a mission akin to creating a new potion, combing two to three different brands that treated only one aspect of her hair in hopes to achieve the ultimate Hermione Hair Care product.

“I imagined what it would feel like….I often thought of sneaking up and just pulling it, just for that single touch, but then I knew, if I did that, I wouldn’t be able to stop. Not to mention your two little bodyguards would’ve hexed me before I even got to enjoy it.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. Was he serious? Was this little tale true or just another wrecking ball to her fortified walls? Words fell into nothingness on her tongue, unable to find a proper response to that.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” his lips whispered against her ear, one hand caressing the side of her neck to make her arch in the opposite direction.

She didn’t know what to believe.

“Answer me my little witch.” The other hand flexed fingers and curled against her head, pulling hair and forcing her neck to tilt back so that her eyes were meeting his. The spray of the water was dropping uncomfortably into her eyes and nostrils, forcing her to wipe at her face and catch her breath.

“M-maybe…” was all she could muster.

“Then maybe I should show you…” his voice had turned husky, eyes darkened with lustful promise. And it both shamed and thrilled her that her body reacted to it before he pressed her up against the glossy tiled wall of the stall, one hand firmly entangled in her wet tresses and the other delving down between her thighs. Just a few seconds of coaxing and she was altering her stance to allow him better entry.

She heard the smirk and the unspoken ‘Good girl’ at her initiative. It was a marvel that he knew just how light a touch worked her body, as if he’d studied her and memorized every facet of her personality-which was impossible-but she felt herself falter despite her resolve. Was it wrong to allow him to have this effect on her? Yes, play the obedient pet, the role that would keep her alive, but was it possible to separate the heart from the head? She’d always equated physical touch with emotional meaning, hence all the hugs and playful smacks and casual arm thrown over a shoulder, sitting close together in the same chair, sharing body heat as they read or wrote notes…but all those touches had been the philia kind-amongst friends-not erotic.

And she’d always imagined these kind of touches and sentiments shared with someone she cared deeply for, someone she imagined spending the rest of her life with. Not Draco sodding Malfoy.

And damn it, he was far too skilled at this for his own good.

Even when he turned his hand and angled a finger towards her anus, she couldn’t fight that it felt curiously pleasurable. And the throbbing hard on pressing against her clued her in that he enjoyed touching her as much as she was finding his touch not all that repulsive.

“Breathe steady and relax.” He instructed, angling his head against her bum. “I’ll go slow.”

With her hands braced against the tile, all she could do was nod and suck in a breath went she felt that slick tip enter, his hands spreading her cheeks as he inched his way in and moving at a sloth’s pace. Considerate to the forceful intrusion she endured the day prior, something she never once contemplated finding pleasure in-yet knew that it somehow was for all the homosexual men of the world, so there had to be something about it-it was a sobering culture shock that there was so much about the body she had yet to discover.

His lips were on her neck, one hand playing with a hardening nipple, his other hand teasing her clit, and his cock broadening her sexual horizons in an otherwise unexplored region, all while hot water loosened sore muscles and steamed the air around them.

Rule four of seduction: explore all holes, and as many as you can at once.

She wasn’t sure what of the many things he was doing that did it, but when she came and fell apart in his arms; she knew right then and there that her body would never be the same again. Too many fires had been stoked, too many doors opened for it all to be locked away again and never revisited. He turned off the water and wrapped her in a towel that could’ve been mistaken for a cloak and again went for a kiss, which she barely avoided, leaving him with her blushing cheek that she just prayed he took for shyness rather than self-preservation.

“Are you alright?” he asked, patting her dry with the towel.

She nodded. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do Draco…” She couldn’t meet his eye though, focusing instead on the task of drying herself. “I’m not going to let what they did ruin me for life. And I know that I have to let you…handle me…so…thank you. Thank you for…” she trailed off, not even sure how to finish her sentence. Honestly, how does one thank another for what he had done?

A brief touch of his lips brushed across her forehead before he turned away to his dresser where clothing was already placed out, leaving her to ruminate over his affectionate display as she dried herself.

Unless she was forced to admit it, that kiss he stole from her yesterday had taken her breath and her mind for a whirl. And when she met his eyes, it was as if the storm clouds that had always resided there had parted and she was seeing straight through him, to that place inside where only people who love each other should see. Perhaps he’d let his guard down to earn a bit of trust, but she couldn’t risk it. Goodness knows what he saw in hers.

It thrilled her that normal clothing had been set out for her, not that silly slave harem outfit to feel vulnerable in, but actual jeans and a simple black tee shirt. And she was even being given shoes! A simple pair of house shoes but still, it was a rubber sole under her foot. Odd that this ordinary act brought out a near Christmas-morning-joy response in her.

Then she saw the Slytherin panties and slouched her shoulders. Of bloody course. He wasn’t likely to forget about that. But noticeably, there was no bra. She shot him an accusatory glare at the selection of clothing.

“What?” he replied all too cheekily. “At least it’s appropriate.”

“And why is that important now?”

“Because you’re coming down for breakfast.”

Hermione felt like lead had sunk into her stomach.

Oh hell fucking no.

He nodded. “Oh yes you are.”

She shook her head. “I’d rather go back in the cell. There’s no way-”

“You don’t get a bloody choice in this anymore than I do. Now get dressed.” He snapped, turning around towards his dresser and the chair beside it that held his pile of set out clothing. She began to wonder if he even got to choose his own outfit, the way he went on about having no choices.

He put the collar into use, ultimately having to ensure she would actually leave the room and follow him down the stairs, understanding her apprehension all too well, but he was under orders too. He wasn’t in a position to argue or refuse, barely having more freedom than her. It took a considerable amount of coaxing and explaining that it was just his family and Voldemort, no other Death Eaters. And no werewolf. It wasn’t much of a relief, as they stood at the doors; he rescinded the order on her choker and gave her a moment to steel her nerves.

Having occluded the memory of the Patronus and Draco’s confession of how he felt about his position in this war, she was as ready as she was going to be. But still, having to enter a room with any of those people after what happened was still daunting. Draco pushed opened the door and walked with his usual demeanor of someone who owned the space he entered, with her following three steps behind, head down and hands in front of her as ordered.

Voldemort was at the head, Bellatrix to his right, Narcissa beside her. Lucius was to his left followed by an empty seat. There was no chair set at the other end of the table, which meant Hermione was either to stand, or be seated on the floor, or not permitted to eat at all. Draco took his seat by his father, who was doing everything in his power to not make any eye contact with her. Other than a curt nod of acknowledgement the two Malfoy’s did not speak. Tension was thick.

To her surprise, the Dark Lord himself motioned with his hand for her to come forth. When she approached the end of the table, the attention was turned onto Draco. “Well, she appears docile enough…perhaps we did extinguish some of that Gryffindor fire after all. I presume you’ve made progress?”

Draco’s posture was impeccably straight as he exuded his calm façade and even went so far as to give his lord a smile. “I have. I now know how the Order communicates with the upmost certainty between members, no owls to be interceded or drop-offs that can be compromised. I will have to entrust her with her wand though.”

“Ah, hence why you’ve yet to bind her magic…” he concluded with that raspy voice with grated on her ears, like bone rubbing on bone. Bellatrix was eyeing her warily. “I would recommend little Mudblood, that should you dare turn that wand on any persons here you will be dead before you can finish your spell.”

She nodded.

The dark cold eyes of the monster never wavered from hers as he commanded Draco with a wave of his hand to proceed. If he was using Legilimens on her, then he was being underhanded and elusive when he could have her writhing on the floor like Snape had done hours earlier, but she doubted he was doing anything that would compromise her ability to perform the spell. Even he, a former student of Hogwarts, must’ve been taught the Patronus charm, but failed to make it corporeal. Draco came to her side and placed it in her hand, his other coming up to her face to grip her chin and force her to look him in the eye.

“Remember what I told you.” He said sternly, a show of his dominance.

She knew at least three wands were aimed at her although she couldn’t see them. Still unsure if she had it in her to take a life, she knew better than to try anything. That ship had sailed. The new one she was currently boarded had a whole new strategy to stay afloat.

“Contact Harry Potter.” The voice of the devil commanded her, bringing her back to the present. “Tell him if he truly values you, he will come here and face me like the man he believes himself to be.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes at his pretentious demeanor and pompous posturing like he was a goddamn king. She knew her life wasn’t worth the entirety of the wizarding world, but Slytherins had a very narrow-minded view of what loyalty looked like and believed every person possessing even the smallest of moral compasses would be willing to throw themselves upon a sword for their cause. Harry was important for a reason she’d come to a conclusion to at the end of fifth year, that he himself was also a Horcrux, and thus was essential in the defeat of the bastard before her.

Harry and her had gone several rounds of rowing on the importance of their lives should one be captured. She made him swear that he’d not sacrifice himself for any one member of the Order, no matter whom. After the loss of Sirius, he’d taken it way too personally, that all these deaths were somehow his fault. He felt the only way to balance the scale of injustice was with his own blood. She nearly slapped him, screaming that he needed to live, that there had already been too much loss, and if any prophecy was to be fulfilled it needed to be his own.

But no one else knew that.

She conjured the ghostly otter, focusing on holding that happy memory as the table full of Slytherins observed, a tiny hitch of breath from Narcissa the only hint that it was a sight unseen to them.

She cleared her throat, but it was thick with emotion and the threat of tears she was putting in it. Make it believable, she told herself. “H-Harry….it’s me. They’ve got me…and the only way I’m gonna make it is if you come. You promised me…you said you’d protect me…” she choked up, conjuring up the memory of obliviating her parents to bring that bitter sting in her voice. “Face him Harry, one on one and put an end to this…and we’ll…” she dared to meet Draco’s eyes. “And we’ll finally be free. I love you.”

There was a faint twitch in his eye, but otherwise he gave no impression to her words. Once the otter did its circular trajectory around her and morphed into a wispy comet of light, he snatched the wand from her hand roughly and shoved it into the wand pocket of his slacks.

“Well done Draco.” Bellatrix purred. “I knew she belonged to one of them, no surprise it was the famous one.”

Even Voldemort laughed at the jab. “Take a seat Draco; you’ve done well with her so far. She looks no worse for wear so you must’ve found a different approach.”

Draco took his seat, shooting his aunt a suggestive look that she grinned wickedly at before he turned to Hermione and patted his lap. After wiping a pseudo-tear away she came around the edge of the table and looped her right arm around the back of the chair and gently eased herself onto his lap, minding her tender bum. His arm instinctively came around her waist, hand resting possessively on her hip.

“I did.” He answered smugly, daring to be challenged about it. “I’ve found that this one responds far more positively to praise than pain.” He turned to face her and held her chin with his other hand. “Did you enjoy our shower this morning?”

She flushed and stiffened, caught off guard by the abrupt mention of their intimate time together and squirmed under his grey-eyed scrutiny. He laughed and once again regarded the dark wizard at the head of his family’s table.

“Like any smart pet, she responds to little treats for good behavior. And I promised her if she’s good, then she’ll be rewarded.”

The temperature in her face reached critical mass, code red, abort ship! and every other euphuism she knew to describe the level of embarrassment she felt at being spoken about so crassly, despite it being the God’s honest truth. Playing on her so-called confessed feelings for him and twisting them into a reward system for betraying the Order of the Phoenix with the promise of being bedded by the Slytherin Prince.

If that’s what they wanted to believe she would let them.

Her eyes roamed over the room, how different it was in the light of morning than the scene it was last night. The atmosphere was still rank with dark magic and fear, but sunlight made it feel less oppressive. Narcissa kept her head tilted down just enough so she wouldn’t be mistaken for direct eye contact, but she did raise her eyes high enough for send a sympathetic glance at the girl across her. Lucius, kept his eyes on his plate, unwilling to look at the girl in his son’s lap and she avoided looking at him as well. Hell, she was done trying to take in the details and layout of the room and at the nudging of Draco, reached for his glass and handed it to him.

The meal was quiet except the sounds of silverware scraping against china and polite chewing, until her stomach audibly gurgled. It was enough to draw the attention of the Death Eaters and lady of the manor.

“Draco, you’ll see to making sure your pet eats well, won’t you?” she asked in that motherly way that was clearly an order and not a request.

“Of course.” He replied with a shrug, like it was no big deal to provide sustenance for a living being in his care. “I’m sure the elves have some leftovers.” He cocked his head up to Hermione. “That alright with you Pet? Eating with those little creatures you so sympathize with?”

“Yes sir.” She answered demurely to the snickers of Bellatrix’s and Voldemort’s combined amusement. The deranged witch even mimicked her response in a little high pitched girly voice that Hermione often had heard from the likes of Pansy Parkinson.

God she hated that insane, crazy-haired bitch.

When the meal came to an end, Draco sent her to the kitchen with a smart pat to her ass, which earned a little jolt out of her as she scurried out of sight to ask an elf for a plate. Voldemort dismissed the rest his family, leaving it to just the two of them.

“They are rather entertaining aren’t they?” the dark lord asked him. “A blight to the wizarding community, but quite fun to reduce to tears with naught but a word.”

Ah yes, that one particular word.

One that now made him taste wet dirt in his mouth every time he uttered it.

“Is your revenge coming along as you’ve planned?”

He nodded.

“Does it bother you that her heart belongs to another? She’ll never be truly loyal to you if she loves someone else.”

Draco selected his words carefully. “I don’t need her to love me, although it would make her obedience genuine. With Potter dead there’d be no competition. Granted of course, that the others are not permitted to touch her now that I’ve claimed her properly.”

The gray skin of the dark lord peeled back in a terrifying smile. “None shall touch her, as long your loyalty is never in question, and you rectify your previous failures with the success of your next task.”

It was a small reassurance.

“And what is my next task?”

The bald head of the immortal wizard caught the light, making Draco blink away the brightness as the inhuman being gleamed his unnaturally sharp teeth at his youngest soldier. “Simple dear boy. It will be child’s play. Kill her parents.”

…………………………

She wasn’t sure if they had already sympathized with her and had a meal prepared, or were under orders, but the kitchen staff of elves were more than accommodating to serve her at the little table again. And nothing that looked like “leftovers” but more like an actual small feast for one.

Eating in the kitchen wasn’t so bad either. In fact, she much preferred it. It was warmer, cozier, and far more welcoming than the formal dining room full of murderers and cretins. Sitting on Draco’s lap and bringing his glass to him, going so far as to hand him his napkin was an unexpected show to put on, it being something a girlfriend would do, a simpering lovesick adoring girlfriend. Like Lavender.

She snorted.

She still couldn’t understand why it rankled her so much that she’d given Ron every chance to approach her and then he completely bypassed her for the likes of Brown and her slobbering tongue. Then it hit her. Lavender had experience. She knew what boys liked; she knew what to do and wear to get their attention while she’d been going at it all wrong, like a friend. No bloody wonder. She should’ve seen it then at Yule, that Ron had not seen Hermione Granger as a dating kind of girl, just a friend kind of girl.  
Would he like her still after knowing what transpired here? Now that she’d gained some experience, ill-gotten as it had been. Would knowing who had been her first really matter in the end? Then again, she did bear his name on her arm now. Something that couldn’t be hidden unless she wore long sleeves in every aspect of her life. A name that no doubt put a sour taste in the young Weasley’s mouth since their first year of school. He’d see that name and always associate it with what happened….and he wouldn’t want to touch her again.

Thoughts of post-war life ran through her mind, of how they would go about picking up the pieces once Voldemort was dead, how they would try to put all the pain behind then and just strive forward. And then thoughts of a world in which Voldemort won invaded her mind, filling her with the dread that she was living in a prison from which she may never leave, living her life sentence of sexual slavery and degradation. She would never see her parents again, not that they would ever know their loss. It was better that way. Long gone and locked away from even her own mind, under the protection of the Fidelius Charm, with someone as her Secret-Keeper, out there with the knowledge of where they were, waiting to be revealed when the time was right. Another protection in place for herself, so the information couldn’t be extracted.

She had planned for such a contingency.

And then she heard Voldemort’s assignment to Draco.

………………………………..

His feet brought him to the kitchen, though he barely recalled walking there once the Dark Lord took his leave. He felt hollowed out and then stuffed full of rotting chestnuts, with a sickly twist in his gut at what this task meant for him. For her.

If he failed, then he’d lose her indefinitely, and there would be nothing he could do to save her from the likes of Greyback.

And if she ever knew, then any chance of even pretending she could care about him would be lost forever.

He stood in the doorway, occluding until he went cross-eyed, shutting down everything. Every emotion was shoved into a box. Every wishful dream. Every memory of her in his arms. He couldn’t let those sway him. It was just a simple mission; kill two muggles. They stood no chance in hell. Like swatting pygmy-puffs. He’d earn a step up in the ranks, and the Dark Lord’s trust. He was promised her safety upon his success. Risking a glance into the room, seeing her finish her meal and speaking freely with one of the elves, he felt ill at the thought. There was nothing he could say to make it right. And he had until midnight to complete the task. Little over twelve hours. Plenty of time really, considering he already knew the location of their residence and could apparate to the closest apparation point to it. The flick of the wrist and they’d be dead before they hit the ground. The whole mission could take an hour, with allowance for unexpected factors.

But til then….he would make the most of the time he had left.

…………………………..

She was in Heaven. He was in his own personal Hell.

Technically though, they were in the library.

Now that he’d been assigned his latest task there was no longer need to be supervised and no further information was being requested at this time, he wanted to take her to the one place he knew he offer that would put a smile on her face. For years actually, he’d wanted to see her reaction to his family’s personal ancestral ancient library that rivaled the likes of both Hogwarts and the Ministry. He boasted about it often enough to plant it in her head that it was a wonder of the world she was missing out on, something that she wasn’t worthy enough to ever see.

Yesterday hadn’t been a proper introduction. Today he would rectify that.

“Welcome, to the glorious Malfoy Library.” He waved his arm to encompass the vast room after the double doors opened and he gestured to her to step through. She was hesitant at first, but that ebbed away in the blink of eye with a breathy gasp and widened bright eyes, she dared a little bounce in her step as she bee-lined to the nearest bookcase and started caressing spines.

He’d never been envious of a book before, but he’d willingly transfigure himself into one just to be held and cherished in the way she did. This was her true love. The written word, fictional or fact, knowledge was her lover. She was lost in her own world, her own headspace, too enthralled with the gift before her to take in why they were even there, or what the visit here might require of her. He followed with hands clasped behind his back, mentioning the subjects within, the origins of some tomes, how some were even one of a kind, with hand inked pages.

After a moment, she stopped and spun around. “Why are we here?”

“I meant it. A good pet gets a reward. And you were absolutely splendid this morning, so here is your reward.” He tried to come off nonchalant with a little shrug and slight turn of his head. “I might even let you stay in here for the afternoon, no one will bother you.”

“Why?”

He should’ve known she wouldn’t fall for such a blasé answer. “Because I have something I need to do tonight. A little mission to prove my worth, if you will. I need to ensure you won’t try anything while I’m gone though. I’d really prefer to not have to bind your magic after such a good show.”

She scrunched her lips up in contemplation, wrinkling her nose and lifting the apples of her cheeks. “So, this is an incentive. Well played Malfoy.”

“I told you, to address me by my given name. Or do I need to bend you over my knee and spank it into you?”

Her hands immediately went to cover her bum. “It’s tender enough as it is, thankyouverymuch! Draco. Draco. Draco!” she sneered at him a scowl. “And your lap isn’t exactly the softest thing to be propped up on so shortly after doing something…like that.”

“Doing something like what Hermione?” he mocked, arms crossed and peering down at her. “Anal sex? Don’t be such a prude princess. I’m going to fuck every hole you have and make you love it.” He advanced a step towards her. “I’ll make your body respond merely to the sound of my voice, get you dripping without even laying a hand on you, leaving you absolutely gagging for it that you’ll suck up that Gryffindor pride and beg me to release the tight. Hot. Wet. Throbbing. Tension in that little cunt of yours.” He punctuated each word with a closer step, a drop in octave, a gleaming leer until he was right in her personal space, having successfully backed her up to a shelf, his breath wisping across her loose curls.

One hand braced against the case, and the other skimming a thumb across her flushed cheek to move a stray tendril. “But right now…all I want are your lips.” The thumb swept along her jawline and danced underneath her bottom lip, his fingers brushing lightly against her throat.

Rule five of seduction: never underestimate the power of words.

“N-no.” she whispered as if Madam Pince would come round the corner and threaten to deduct points for being out of class.

“No?” he parroted, piqued by the refusal. “And pray tell, what does one have to do for that to become a yes?”

“They’re…they’re not for you.” She answered, causing him to cock his head in confusion.

“All of you is for me. Have you forgotten?” he brushed across the choker as a reminder. “What makes them so much more precious than the rest of you?”

Her chest rose as she inhaled a steadying breath. “You can’t have everything. You’ve already claimed my body, my mind, my freedom…and unless you plan to steal my voice too, you cannot have my lips.”

“Saving them for someone special? Hmmm? Like Potter?” his eyes hardened like nails. “Your precious savior? Do you really love him?”

She tried turning herself to dart around him, but was met with a hard hand shoving her shoulder against the wood and holding it in place with far too much ease. “You’re not leaving until I get answers. I have time to kill. Now why the fuck are you refusing to even let me kiss you? Your lips are as much my property as your hair, your tits, and this.” He demonstrated with the sharp thrust of his hips against her, meeting the juncture of her thighs his hardening cock.

“Because I can’t!” she cried out. “I can’t kiss you. I just can’t let myself give in. I…I need something that still is mine!”

“You. Are. Mine.” He growled. “And if I want them, I will have them. What happened to obedience Granger? Did you think it was only for show? I want all of you.”

His voice softened, his grip loosened…this wasn’t the way to go about it. “Do you need me to beg? To say ‘please’ like a good boy? If you need to hear it, then I will, but only this once. A Malfoy does not beg. But I will make one exception.”

Her head shook in confusion. “Who are you? Just how many personalities do you have in there? I never know what I’m getting with you…”

“All of me Granger. You’re getting all of me. All the anger, frustration, passion, and obnoxious charm you’ve come to know so well. All of me for all of you. Feed the fire burning inside me with yours. I want it. I want you, in every way, wholly and completely devoted to me, no matter what it is I have to do.”

Damn him for making good on his promise (threat?) that he’d make her body respond to him. For making that spot itch and sweat and heat up. Damn him with those soul piercing eyes and tempting tongue-even with its cruelty-and all those words that fell from it and caressed her ears and throat and flowed over her like a summer breeze. Damn him back to the hell all Malfoy’s were spawned from.

She’d overheard his mission. Overheard the three worst words she thought she could ever hear, being directed at the one she was trusting with her life to, and if he didn’t succeed they both were good as dead. But she couldn’t tell him. The truth was wrapped up in spell of protection, in the hands of another-someone she hoped survived the war and would speak the information needed-but not her own. She knew she couldn’t be trusted to not crack under the pressure when it came to them. If they were compromised, then she would be, and once she was, then Harry would be.

“Take it then.” She whispered in defeat. “Take what is left of me. I have nothing left to give.”

His hands were cradling her face, smoothing away hairs and tears. “I’m taking nothing that I’m not giving in return.”

Stop. You’re killing me. Your words…how they sting so deep…

“Please…Hermione.”

She felt the stab in her chest. She felt the blood seep through her clothing and dissolve into nothing. One word. One word and she was now trapped. Her heart was caged. The free bird caught and placed behind bars. And he held the key.

“I’m asking for this one.” He pleaded softly, his breath ghosting over the lips he so easily could take in his teeth and mark as his property.

“Why?” her voice barely audible now.

His forehead pressed against her own. He was all but smothering her in his embrace, his hold, caging her in and cradling her like glass. Emotions radiated off of him in waves, fluctuating between raw possessiveness and gentle endearing promises of things unsaid. He wanted to tell her, warn her, and prepare her for the horror that was to come. And she wanted to tell him it was already taken care of, that he needn’t burden his heart with this dark deed. Did he want this kiss as a guarantee that she would still obey when he returned with blood on his hands? Was this an apology? He didn’t want her love; he’d told her so…so why was a kiss so important to him? Was he really that selfish, that he just wanted everything because it had been decreed his?

“I need it.” He answered, surprising her with both by responding and the words chosen.

Need.

Why need a kiss? Why need her at all? She barely knew a thing about sex, what she was supposed to do with her body, let alone with his. Why bother dealing with all her hesitations and insecurities when he could have a witch who knew what she was doing? Was this is all just for Order information and being bait to lure Harry in?

A little mewl of some kind came from her as she fought herself. Her eyes had been screwed shut for who knew how long now, and damn if she could bring herself to open them now and face him. He’d devour her vulnerability and leave her with nothing to call her own, even her shame. But she couldn’t run, there was nowhere to go, no one that would come to her aid, no one tell keep him from getting what he wanted-nay, needed he had said-and her back was already against the wall, quite literally. So now there was only one option left.

Fight fire with fire. Feed fire with fire. Become the fire.

Her eyes snapped open with such ferocity that it startled him, and before he could say another word, she pulled on his neck and slammed her lips against his, taking the kiss into her own, making it happen on her terms. And being met with just as much force. He had more experience, knowing the proper movements as they fought for supremacy, a dance of two opposing forces and no ground being given.

She had more fingers on one hand than all the kisses she’d ever experienced from boys, and none were like this. This wasn’t how a boy kissed. This was being ravished by a man. A man being driven to the edge of madness, grasping at straws for sanity and something corporeal enough to call his. A man that was ordered to kill her parents and torture her, and possibly even be her executioner should the order be given.

He needed it.

Now she understood.

There was weight to this onslaught, years of pent up aggression and the new ones brought on by the war. If he was going to die, she imagined this would be the kiss he wanted to leave her with, something that took a little bit of her soul with him into the dark.

And suddenly her feet were no longer on the floor, her buttocks resting on a solid Quidditch playing thigh as hands lifted her shirt and flung it clear off her head, giving her the reprieve to gasp before the battle began anew, with nipping and suckling and a tongue running along the edge before slipping in as his hands swept up and cradled each breast, thumbs flicking across the pert nipples as fingernails dug into her sides.

Before she realized she was actually doing it, her hands were also yanking up his shirt, before he took over and jerked it off his head, pressing his blazing hot skin against her own. She always imagined he’d feel cold. Cold as his ice-covered heart, cold as his steel grey eyes, cold as the dark lord he served. But oh how wrong she was. So cold he burned. He burned with a volcano’s rage and passion and power. He could tear her apart with his bare hands or with any of the dark spells he’d learned. And yet…he wanted a kiss.

His mouth was everywhere now. Trailing down her neck, diving into the valley between her breasts, attacking both breasts, bringing her arms up and biting her wrists, working his way across her naked arm as the bandage still protected the slashed one. His hands worked the button and zipper of her jeans, and then she was set back on the floor and they were promptly slid down to her ankles in one fell swoop. She barely managed to lift one ankle out of the denim puddle before he was lifting her again and carrying her off, the other leg dangling on her ankle for a few feet before it gave way. A cold and hard surface met her bare back-which she was oddly glad for, cooling her overheated body with its contact-and his mouth trailed along her Dolohov scar, fingers digging into her hips, sliding the Slytherin knickers down.

His tongue dipped into her belly button, causing her to squeal with the ticklish reflex, and she felt the vibrations of his chuckle echo against her pelvis as he parted her thighs and went straight for the kill. It dawned on her that she was laying flat on a desk, as evident by the various papers and inkwell that went crashing to the floor before he placed her upon it like a sacrificial lamb to an altar. All rational thought turned to liquid in her brain, unable to even string together a proper protest as his tongue flicked parts of her body that hadn’t been seen by anyone since her nappy wearing days, and how fucking marvelous it felt that if he stopped she swore she would hex his hair red if he dared.

Her hands flailed for purchase, one managing to grab hold of the edge of the desk, and the other somehow found itself threaded through that godforsaken soft hair and pulled. He had propped one thigh up over his shoulder, giving him wider access to her pussy. As his fingers and tongue moved in perfect cadence, another dance he knew all too well, she wondered if this was what it was like to feel like a string instrument, something like a cello or violin, being plucked apart to create a new sound with every infliction. Like a master musician, he held her in place, stretching out that note until her voice rang raw and she exploded into a finale of fireworks from within, her body one with the universe and ocean before coming back down to earth.

And then there was a thumb wiping away the wetness in her eyes, and soft lips gently brushing against hers, leaving a tangy musky taste that she realized must be from herself and finally acknowledging a pair of grey eyes, grey like granite and dove feathers and overcast clouds threatening to rain. After a moment of realizing he was smiling at her, she blinked several times in a daze. He moved some hair away from her face and cast a Legilimens so stealthily that she was unaware he was in her mind until he’d flipped through a few memories and brought up her family home and her parents.

Searching so he could identify his targets.

She shot up and into his firm grip, preventing her from lashing out against him. “Whoa there feisty one. I was just checking something. Your defenses are down; you need to occlude better, against mental and physical exhaustion. And stop letting me get past your walls.” He tapped her forehead. “Fortify that like your life depends on it, because it does.”

Unfortunately, he was right. If he could slip in undetected from the distraction of a post-coital orgasmic embrace then the foundation of her fortress was built on sand rather than stone. There would be no stopping Voldemort if and when he chose to delve into her mind on his own. As it stood, he was still leaving that task up to Draco to complete. Another failure on his part would not bode well for either of them. She couldn’t let him fail.

Unsure why, she found herself pulling him into her, wrapping her arms around his back, fingers splayed and digging into taunt muscles underneath. Her nose was nestled against his chest, breathing in his scent, hearing the steady cadence of his heartbeat and held him. She felt his hand pet her hair, softly, slowly, and she nuzzled against him.  
“Oh, so you’re a cuddler?” he asked with a gentle laugh. He wasn’t surprised by it. Not at all. It was endearing, because it was Her. Hermione Granger actually clinging to him for comfort when she’d always been so stalwart and strong, never backing down and poised with the grace of a queen. And he’d brought this out of her, chipping away at her armor until she was mentally as naked as she was physically.

His.

He’d never felt this possessive tug in him before with other witches he’d bedded. They knew it was just an itch to scratch, whether it was once or ten times, they knew they weren’t going to be the next Lady Malfoy and be the possessor of his heart. They walked away with trinkets and lovebites, pleased with both. He never promised anything he wasn’t willing to give and never expected it in return. They weren’t his and he wasn’t theirs, nothing exclusive. Hell, he’d even watched as two of them fooled around with each other for the entertainment of the common room.

But it was different with Granger. Entirely different. The need to consume every part of her and claim every inch of skin. The drive to be the one that would ruin her for the rest of mankind had become an obsession. He had to have her despite everything he’d been raised to believe about her kind. And the higher she climbed in accolades and recognition the more of a prize she became. Only the best.

He took a handful of hair and gently pulled back so she craned her neck towards him and captured her lips for his own, softer this time. He could show her what it meant to be thoroughly owned, body and soul, a death by a thousand little cuts with the grace of a butterfly’s wing. Every kiss to follow would never compare, falling into shadow and lost to memory.

“Just the thought of having you in the library makes me hard.” He breathed against her lips. “Hearing you moan and grabbing books as I ram you into the shelf, completely at my mercy. Have you ever thought about it? Or would it be sacrilege to your church to give into such carnal delights?”

The image he conjured had her grinding her thighs together and fighting to keep her voice soundless…but the tiniest of nasal whimpers escaped nonetheless.

“Oh don’t be coy little lioness. Tell me where you want it.”

Her breath caught in her throat when his hands moved to her hips and pulled her flush against him, then dug under her buttocks and lifted her off the desk. She gripped his shoulders and wrapped her legs around him for support, meeting a molten mercury gaze that told her she was not getting away from him.

“S-sofa.” She wavered, not quite ready to entertain how being rammed against a bookcase would feel despite the sinful imagery. Honestly, she was taken for a loop when he did indeed carry her over to the sofa, rather than doing what he wanted. He settled in against the cushions and helped position her thighs on either side of him.

“So, you want to ride the dragon?” he teased against her ear, a smirk in his voice as she let out a barely suppressed laugh behind a hand at her mouth. “That gets a laugh every time.” He confessed, hand running along her spine. “But you’ll be screaming by the time you’re done.”

Oh that, she had no doubts of. She had no grounds to argue when it came to this field, but she wasn’t going to let him have the lead points for too much longer. Taking the initiative, her hands came up to his neck, dragging nails along his skin, hearing him hiss with closed eyes as he rolled his shoulders. She took the moment to execute a blitz attack, bringing her mouth to his throat, feeling him stiffen and suck in a breath as she played soft lips against his tender veins. He tilted to one side, offering to her, urging her to continue. At first, it was a kiss to test the waters, then a light impression. When she felt his hand come up and cradle the back of her head and his whispered “Go on.” she was prompted into applying more pressure.

His hand pressed hard against her back, pushing her further into himself as he encouraged her bite. It quickly became apparent that if he could handle round after round of the Cruciatus curse, then her teeth paled in comparison to his pain threshold, and she no longer needed his guiding hand to grind the enamel into his skin, twisting ever so slightly and licking up the little drips of salvia she left behind.

“Pants…off…” he uttered, fumbling his hands at the trouser opening, prompting her into action to help him relieve himself of their confinement. He was at full attention, pressing alongside her thigh and abdomen, taking one of her hands and guiding it over the tip, letting her feel him and familiarize herself with its shape and girth. Still latched onto him like a lamprey, she allowed him to work her thumb over the round head, releasing pre-cum and groans from his tortured throat. “Need…you…now…” he whispered. “Come on princess.”

A shiver rippled down her back at the new nickname, how adoring it sounded, like he truly meant it. She knew he was ready, practically pleading. He was giving her the lead, letting her set the pace. Something she didn’t think he did too often, not with his need to control everything and how little control of his life he did maintain. She was still slick from his oral ministrations, so lining him up against her entrance made it all the easier as she lifted to her knees and slowly descended upon it. An unholy gasp coursed through her as she stretched with every inch, his hands resting on her hips and helping guide into her steadily.

He watched her eyes water and roll back, her mouth make that silent O shape, and the full body tremble as they joined. Carefully, he helped her accommodate to him, keeping her still once he was fully sheathed within. His brave little lioness, he was so proud of her. One small rotation of his hips and her eyes snapped open, her hands racking into his shoulders, and she was moving against him to the beat of her own drum.

She was on fire, inside and out. Heated within from the friction of Draco’s cock thrumming against her sensitive walls, hitting all the way up to a spot that had her seeing stars and stealing the breath from her lungs. She consumed every part of him; his body, his mind, his very being as she moved, gasped, cried out, and clawed him, leaving him just as breathless and awestruck. He couldn’t even put it into words, barely more than a monosyllabic response like ‘yes’ or ‘oh gods’ and felt his brain fizzle with sensations she drove into him. He pulled her in for another kiss and felt like he was intoxicated on firewhiskey, she was fierce and fiery, biting him until he bled and licking it from the wound. It took all he had not to cum right then and there, trying to keep himself in check until she crested her wave. And not a minute too soon, she started to tense up and squeeze him for every drop as she fell apart with a harpy’s cry that led to fangs digging into his clavicle with bruising force. He lost all control after that, spilling himself with his head thrust into her shoulder and nails digging into her skin, leaving marks he could admire later.

Her body fell limply against him, post orgasmic tremors racing through her body every few seconds as she panted out heavy breaths and heavy heartbeats while he was just as wrecked, thanking Merlin she chose the sofa after all for he would’ve fallen to the floor like he’d been jelly-hexed. He barely had the energy to bring a hand up and rest it upon her back and pat her a few times, too breathless for verbal praise. Fucking witch nearly broke him.

She’d ridden the dragon alright.

They spent an unmeasurable amount of time on that sofa, enveloped in each other, exhausted in more than one way. She all but fell asleep, naked and straddling him, and he would’ve let her had not one of the elves popped in while searching for them for lunch. Hermione didn’t even have it in her to shy away from being seen as Draco ordered for their meal to be brought in, along with a sheet or something for her to wrap up in. He didn’t even know where the wand was currently and didn’t care, he wasn’t getting up yet.  
A moment later the elf reappeared with the requested items, and a little stand up table holding the food laden tray. Once wrapped up, Hermione languidly removed herself from him and fell back against the couch, exhausted to her core. Draco took an edge of the sheet and wiped himself off before tucking back into his pants. “Maybe next time, I’ll have you wear your school uniform.” He chuckled, flicking his tongue over his canine and enjoying the darkened pupiled, flushed cheeked response she returned.

Something told her she wouldn’t be wearing it for very long.  
………………………….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story now has artwork, posted at the beginning of Chapter One.
> 
> While critique is accepted I would appreciate not being bashed for "unbelievable" behaviors and scenarios. This chapter is merely a small part of the story and things are not always so easily explained, it does take time. As for how Hermione is coping with what happened to her, she is occluding that incident away and thus cutting out that part from her usual mental library. She also knows that she technically "belongs" to Draco and he's trying to help her overcome it in the way he thinks is best, by having her be with him, something like trying to erase their touch and imprint his own. 
> 
> There's only so much one can do when it comes to being a prisoner, in a war, where the threat of life and death dictate every move you make. Normal rational thought falls by the wayside for the sake of survival.


	10. Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco; charged with the mission of tracking down and killing the Grangers, has to prepare himself for the most difficult task of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger Warning: for attempted murder and domestic abuse under influence of alcohol*

However much she loved the library, she felt safer in the sanctuary that was Draco’s bedroom. Once they completed their meal and redressed, he allowed her some books to borrow and escorted her back to his chambers. She nestled into his bed with the small pile, propped up and comfortable as ever, as if she were back in the Gryffindor common room. He strolled into the bathroom and stripped, stepped into the shower stall and barely felt the water hit him as he occluded.

Everything regarding Granger was categorized between two boxes; the positive and negative. The negative held all every bitter encounter of jinxes shot at each other, insults thrown, her fist in his face, and every paper she bested him on. Things he could willingly show his disdain of her for, make others see the reason she made his blood boil.

Well, mostly.

The other box held far more precious material. And it was soon outgrowing the original container he’d designed for it. He had to revise the storage unit, include even more whispered truths and precious moments that somehow snuck their way out of him. He’d never been vulnerable with his honesty before, and what was worse was that she didn’t seem convinced of it.

But that was for another day and time. He needed to mentally prepare. He had to make sure his wand cast the Avada so it would be verified upon his return. He needed his mind compartmentalized and under his control, able to conjure an image at will or lock one away at the drop of a wand. He needed to become what he’d spent the past year being trained to be: an assassin. Cold and calculating. Methodical and precise. He may not have been able to with Dumbledore, seconds away from agreeing to accept the man’s help before Snape’s intervention and his aunt’s arrival, but he couldn’t fail this time.

They’re just muggles. Useless and weak. Only just human, nothing special.

Just an Avada to each of them and it’s all over.

He stepped out and dried off, then strolled into his room and selected a series of black garments, a tailor fitted suit jacket and slacks, something that wouldn’t look too out of place and draw attention in a muggle environment. He had taken to keeping the special galleon of hers tucked in every pair of pants he wore, just in case if it was something he needed to reward her with or use against her. He still didn’t know what it was about, but nothing was as ever as simple with her. When he turned around to fetch her wand from his discarded pants, he found Granger asleep on his bed, arms curled around the book lovingly. He spared only a moment to observe her prone form, hair spilled across his pillows and knees tucked up.

Sleeps like a cat, he mused.

It was better this way; there would be no awkward parting. No chance for her to disarm him with her inquisitive eyes and well-meaning words. Without further delay, he picked up the witch’s wand and exited the room, warding it just in case. The blasted slithering reptile was still slinking about somewhere. As was his deranged aunt and wraith that had invaded his home and turned it into a place worse than Azkaban.

He was nearly through the foyer when his mother stopped him.

“Draco….is it true? Your mission?”

“I have to mother.” He replied robotically. Just like with everything I’ve had to do for the past two years. “Will you see that she’s tended to should she need anything? I can’t risk an encounter with Nagini or Aunt Bella until I have his word.”

“Can you do this?”

“It’s not a matter of can. I simply have to or I might as well not come back at all.”

He wasn’t meeting her eyes, not even turning his head in her direction, and didn’t offer any comfort before crossing the threshold of the door and stepping out onto the grounds, reaching the designated perimeter where the anti-apparation ward ended before vanishing in swirl of black magic and thunderous crack.

…………………………..

Hermione lay against his plush pillows; book in hand, thoughts all over the place. There was so much she wanted to say, and yet, none of it seemed appropriate. Wish him good luck? Beg him not to go through with it? No. He had a job to do, as did she. So she said nothing, shut her eyes and pretended to sleep as he prepared for his departure. She could feel his eyes roam over her almost as physical as a lingering touch before hearing the fading footfalls and the click of the bedroom door.

Absentmindedly, her fingers lingered on the velvet choker around her throat.  
……………………….

He was standing in the little garden suburb of Hampstead, looking upon a two storey brick house with a little patio balcony overlooking the garden, two chimneys and large windows. The house was modest and fair for two muggles with healer careers, well-kept with a neatly trimmed lawn, but it lacked any warmth of a house currently occupied.  
It was oddly dark despite the afternoon lighting. He saw no furniture within.

He ran through his memories, finding the exact one in which he could clearly read the home address. This was the house. But this was sterile and devoid of life. Empty. His hand dug into his pocket and fiddled with the coin as he contemplated the reasons for it, flicking it between his fingers in an undulating pattern that made it flip back and forth from index to pinky and back again. This wasn’t right. He’d seen memories of this place, lit up and decorated for holidays, with company over for occasions, of young Hermione bouncing up and down with delight over the strange envelope that arrived in the post.

So why was it empty?

He stopped flicking the coin and tossed it up, caught it and glanced down, fully expecting to see the message ‘constant vigilance’ but instead something new was in its place.

~ Otter compromised. Proceed with plan. ~

What the fuck?

He held it up, running his thumb over the surface, feeling for indentions. It was still as smooth as ever, Granger had not carved a blade into it and written this. How could she have when he’d had it in his possession the majority of the time? Which meant that this coin was far more special than he realized. It was a means of communication. With members of the Order.

With Potter.

He closed his eyes. “Oh you clever girl.” He said, squeezing the galleon. 

But now was not the time to marvel at the wit of his brilliant witch, not if he wanted to protect her. He still had to complete his mission, and he was faced with an empty residence. This would not do. Voldemort wanted them dead. He wouldn’t accept anything other than it. He was screwed. 

He was so screwed that he found himself entertaining the notion of reaching out to them. Whoever was on the other side of this coin…?

Once again, he found himself with utterly no choice to make.

But how to use it? Surely there was a way. He pulled back from the line of houses and found a street bench. There was a long pause as he debated with himself; for once he did this there was no going back. Granger was the Otter, and she had been compromised. So apparently, this message was not just for Potter’s benefit, but several others. The Patronus sent this morning had been received, but what was the plan they needed to proceed with? Continue on without her? Was there a rescue plan to rush upon the manor?  
He held her wand to the coin, idly drawing lines across it to test a theory. Sure enough, lines appeared, but then faded a moment later, concluding that there was yet another step before the message could be sent. Did he have to say a name out loud? Incant some sort of charm? Well, there was time to figure it out.

…………………………..

For someone so brilliant, the coin message was ironically so simple. And yet, it had taken him an entire hour to figure it out, going through the list of incantations he knew, wand flicks, designating who the message was for and if it required being flipped into the air or not. But, his perseverance paid off, and now he awaited a response to his open statement.

~ Meet at Otter’s home. Draco ~

He prayed that the word had spread of his deflection. Right now, his life depended on it. He’d only saved Potter’s life three days ago, it was awfully quick to be calling in the favor to be returned, but war had a way of accelerating even the best laid plans. He uprooted himself from the bench and strolled back to his original position of standing across the street from her empty home and waited. He had patience in spades these days. Now that his life danced to the beat of the Dark Lord’s drum, and often, it was a long stretch before action was required on his part. He had been content with the way things had been in fifth year, running as part of the Inquisition Squad of Umbridge, spoiling the fun for mostly everybody as it finally put Slytherin in lead for points and the House Cup. Life was fine until the end of June, when everything went to shit in the Department of Mysteries.  
And she’d been part of the reason. It was bound to happen with her lot against his. 

He was keenly aware of his surroundings, as part of his training running with the Death Eaters on their raids. But honestly, Potter needed to work on his stealth. Those chunky footfalls and heavy breathing…he might as well be playing a game of tag. He chuckled when he felt the tip of a wand graze the back of his neck as he shuffled his pocket for his pack of cigarettes.

“Nice to know you have some modicum of sense.” He said, pulling one out and tucking it behind his ear.

“Where’s Hermione?” Potter’s voice hissed.

“Safe. For now.” He answered, pocketing the pack. “Though for how long I can’t say so do try to keep up. Where are the Grangers?”

“What?” the voice raised in pitch, obviously confused. “What the heck do they have to do-?”

“Potter.” Draco snapped. “Answer the question. Where are they?”

He felt the wand tip dig into his vertebrae. “Obviously not here. Why’sit important?”

“Oh nothing, just the Dark Lord wants them dead is all.” He deadpanned, hearing a gasp that set the hairs on his neck stand up. Potter did not sound like that. He whirled around, grabbing the wrist of the Potter lookalike and bent the wand back in their face. One move and their wrist would snap, rendering them unable to cast. 

“Who dafuq are you?” he seethed, watching the emerald eyes of Potter shift into a dark brown and the boy’s famously black hair shift into a sandy brown as it lengthened. The features quickly changed from masculine to feminine. Before he knew it, he was face to face with his half-blood cousin, the Metamorphmagus Nymphadora Tonks.

“Ello cousin.” She grinned, watching him take in the ability before his eyes. For flare, she started adding streaks of purple to her hair. “Ah that’s better.” She said with a crick of her neck. 

He let go of her hand. “Where’s the real Potter? He’s who I need to talk with.”

“R’lax, he’s here. Just had to make sure this weren’t a trap. You’ve got more wands on you than I can say, so you better not be tryin’ anything.”

“For fuck’s sake, I called Potter to talk with him, not lure him into trap. I trust the Patronus message from this morning made that clear?”

“One can never tell with you.” Potter’s distinct paranoid laden voice stated, coming out of the bushes. “But Hermione’s message used the code word, so we had to trust it. … Then I got the second one. I knew she’d never beg me to come rescue her.”

“But HE doesn’t know that. He thinks she’s your bird and you’re a self-sacrificing idiot. Don’t prove him right.” He pulled the fag from behind his ear and set it in his lips but didn’t light it. “But there’s a bigger matter at hand now. I need to know where the Grangers are.”

“Where. Is. Hermione?” Harry demanded, fists clenched tightly at his sides.

“Like I said to…” he looked over at the woman.

“Tonks.” She supplied.

“Right, Tonks.” He echoed with a nod. “She’s safe for now, but I can’t get her out, not yet anyways.”

“What’s your definition of safe?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “For bloody fuck’s sake. In my bed with a book. That sound safe ‘nuf for ya?”

The woman named Tonks cocked her head at him, noting the large purple mark peeking out over the collar of his coat. She arched an eyebrow but kept her comment to herself.  
Then Draco pulled out Hermione’s wand and conjured a flame to light the rollie. Harry blanched and almost leapt at him. Inhaling a puff and taking a step back, he tucked it back into his pocket. “You stole mine, I stole hers. Should’ve seen that coming Potter. Now for the last time, the Grangers?”

“I don’t know Malfoy. Hermione said they were safe. All I could get from her was that they were protected by protection, protected from her. It didn’t make sense. What’s Vo-I mean He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named want with them?”

He dragged the fag and tilted his head back to blow the smoke upwards. “Why the fuck do you think? He wants them dead. By my hand. By midnight. And if I don’t deliver then your precious golden girl gets thrown to the werewolves.”

Tonks bristled at the statement.

“And you’re actually gonna do it? What the fuck Malfoy I thought you were helping us!” Harry charged at him, pulled back by Tonks at the last second.

“I didn’t say I was gonna do it did I? No, now open your ears. I gotta make it look like I do. It’s the only way to save her from Greyback, he wants her.” No need to mention what’s already happened to her, they’d just see red and hex him five ways to Sunday. “Seeing as they’ve flown the coop, I can’t even Imperio them to play along so now I need something else. He’s gonna see in my head, I have to have something convincing enough. And you’ve met them, you know them. You’ve got to help me set this up.”

Tonks stepped forward. “I can do it. All I need is a change of clothes. I can look like both of them.”

“WHAT?” a voice thundered from a distance, and suddenly the figure of his third year Dark Arts professor was looming over him, all but smacking the cigarette out of his mouth as he pressed Draco against a tree. Coughing back a moment of shock, Draco had to remind himself, Lupin was also a werewolf, and it was approaching the full moon.

Remus leaned in and looked him over, and sniffed. “You’ve been with her…”

“The fuck?!?!” Harry boomed, nearly throwing himself at Draco again. Thank Merlin Tonks had a hell of a grip.

“Well, there’s no lying to that canine sense of smell.” The blond quipped. Not even a shower and a cigarette had hidden her completely off him. “She was a willing participant if you must know. But that’s neither here nor there. She won’t be if Fenrir gets her.” He eyed his professor knowingly. The pressure against his throat loosened.

“You’re lying. She’d never touch you.” Harry spat.

“Want proof?” Draco pulled at his collar. “Got quite the set of teeth if I say so myself. She knows what she needs to do to stay alive Potter. If she’s with me then she’s not with the others, so don’t judge.”

The Boy-Who-Lived looked like he was going to be sick.

“Now what’s this about having to kill her parents?” Remus ordered out of him.

“If I don’t, then she’s as good as dead. So whatever she did to protect them, well I hope it fucking worked because they can’t be seen out and about. I know what they look like.” He turned to his cousin Tonks. “I can show you.”

“Absolutely not.” Remus stated firmly, turning to his wife. “Dora, you literally just had the baby, you cannot be risking yourself like this. What if it goes all wrong?”

“Baby?” Draco blurted, the unexpected revelation thrown at him secondhandedly. He looked her over. She certainly didn’t look like she just gave birth. Then again…her ability…She could be hiding the motherly evidence under her baggy clothes.

“Wait.” Harry said in a shaky voice, hands out. “Look, none of us want Hermione in any worse of a predicament than she’s already in.” he shook his head. “I…I can’t lose her, I just can’t. But I also can’t go charging up there in an obvious trap. So look, we need to do this. We gotta pull together.” He motioned to Draco to step aside with him, leaving the couple to discuss it among themselves.

He plucked his glasses off and wiped his eyes, then reset them on his face. “I do owe you. You didn’t identify me and you got Ron and I out. That counts for something. You’ve got her wand, the coin, you know about the Patronus…unless you Imperio’d her to give all this up, as much as it pains me to admit it…well, I think you’re right.”

Draco had his arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, as much satisfaction as it would normally give me to hear you say that, the circumstances aren’t ideal. But I didn’t Imperio her, and she’s…important to you…so I know you want what’s right.”

Harry stood to his full height, locking eyes with his former rival in all things. “How do you know what they look like? She didn’t carry any pictures of them.”

“Legilimens Potter. I’ve been trained in both Legilimency and Occlumency; even giving our girl some pointers in it to protecting whatever information is hiding in that brain of hers.” 

“Did you hurt her?” his intense green eyes cut into him.

Draco regarded Potter. If he was going to be an ally, there needed to be trust. “Only for show. I took care of her afterwards. We’re wasting time discussing this. I expected this sort of thing from Weasley, not like I miss the git but I’m surprised he’s not here.”

“He couldn’t separate his emotions from the mission and had to stay behind.” Harry stated. “You wouldn’t have gotten two words out if he had been here. So Malfoy, I need to see something. Show me something that I can tell the others, so they’ll believe this.”

A blond eyebrow arched. “You sure about that mate? You may not like what you see. And I’d rather not have my balls hexed off because of it.”

“You won’t, but don’t get vulgar.”

He laughed. “She like a sister or more to you? Just so I know what memory to pull.” Honestly, he wanted to know to settle that long unanswered question that had burned in the back of his mind for years.

“A sister. She’s always been my sister.”

Thank Merlin.

Tonks and Remus were still, voices quiet as they had reached a conclusion, watching as Draco approached Harry and cast the spell. A master Legilimens could not only look into the mind of another, but share their own thoughts and memories, giving the other party insight into their mind. It was critical that Draco and Harry set aside their animosity for the transition to go smoothly, and for the information that he was going to share not trigger a negative response and cause them to incapacitate themselves with abrupt disconnection. 

Draco flicked back to the first day:

“We’re being watched.” He whispered. “I have silencing charms in place, but I know we’re being spied upon. And they expect me to be taking advantage of you right now.”

“You’re going to have to aside your personal discomfort and allow me to give them a show, or you could fight me and make me hurt you.” The hand holding the back of her hair tugged at her hair a bit, exposing her throat. “You’re better off with me than any of them and you know it.”

“This isn’t how I ever thought this would happen, just know that. But I’m trying to end this war. I will do what I have to.”

Harry grimaced but kept his ire in check.

Draco brought up the conversation they had in the kitchen:

“Do you know what a day at Hogwarts consist of now?” He leaned in and spoke in a voice dripping with acid. “Oh let’s see, there’s Alecto taking over muggle studies just to lecture about how useless they are to wizarding kind. There’s always a bunk filled in the infirmary due to all the Crucio’s the students are told to practice on each other. Plenty of them have gone missing, not sure where they’re running off to but it would seem Longbottom’s finally grown balls and continually defies the professors and has had more broken bones than I can keep track of. And he’s a pureblood of the Sacred 28. So tell me, how do you think you’d fair at a school delegating only towards pure and half-bloods?”

Followed by:

He sighed. “Because Granger, I don’t want to keep doing this.”

“You should’ve thought about that when you claimed me for your own.” She hissed.

“I did it so I wouldn’t have to see Fenrir Greyback do something ten times worse!” he shouted at her. “For fucking Merlin’s sake Hermione do you think I wanted any of this?”

“You don’t know how often I’ve thought of that. Getting one, going back to before all this began….never taking the Dark Mark.”

“I took it too far today, doing that. There wasn’t a purpose other than to make you bleed just to appease my aunt. I mean yeah you did bite me but I shouldn’t have hit you either. And I know it’s hard for you to believe, but I was raised a gentleman. At least, to be one to those who matter-in my father’s opinion. It was difficult, to recognize you as a competent witch as well as being muggleborn. You weren’t like what I was told to expect, and I hated it because with your skills, your intelligence, we would’ve been some team. And you always had top marks, not matter what I did. It wasn’t fair. And if you weren’t muggleborn we could’ve studied together, been partners, hell…even have been friends.”

Harry swallowed a lump in his throat.

And finally:

“I guess…I’m just saying…I’m sorry. For all of it. For six years of childish bullying and bullshit based on nothing. For things coming to this. This war, Dumbledore, the cabinet and the school…Professor Burbage and several others that died here…for y-yesterday…today…and whatever happens afterwards.”

Draco disengaged the bond, coming back out his memories slowly, a hand up to his eyes, shielding them from shedding tears as he gathered his bearings. Harry just stood there, openly letting the tears stream down his face. The members of the Order stood, watching their reactions to each other. Obviously something of great importance passed between the two boys.

“Jesus…” Harry uttered, looking at Draco like he’d never seen a pureblood wizard before.

“Satisfied Potter?” Draco asked, immediately regaining control of his expressions and emotions. “Because I swear, the rest of it will have you seeing far more of her than you’d like to.”

“I believe you!” Harry cried out, shaking his head at the mental images of Hermione somehow tangled up with this prat and enjoying it. Nope. Not going there.

“Thank you. Now that we’ve wasted enough time, let’s get this over with.”

……………………………..

Occluding was akin to meditation, only with the extra fortitude it required to actually move memories from one section of the brain to another. Hence the difficulty in becoming proficient in it. For someone such as herself, who had long taken to an organized system of her own with a higher IQ than most of her peers and having to process all the information she took in, it was only a different dance from the one she’d been self-taught.

Compartmentalizing, color coding, alphabetizing, chronicle logging and labeling by theme was how she’d always organized her mind. A place for everything and everything in its place. Hence why it was so easy for her to recall entire articles from books and process information quickly if she already had a reference in her head to compare to.

But occluding wasn’t just making it nice and neat. It was about sequestering away anything that might be vital. Anything that might be used against her. Which could be a lot. But most importantly was her research on the Horcruxes, all the members of the Order of the Phoenix, the messenger coin, and anything Dumbledore said to her during sixth year that might have had a hidden meaning.

And then of course, what happened in the dining room the previous evening.

She couldn’t afford to wallow in the self-imposed shame of having being violated by multiple assailants in some twisted game of punishment. It would’ve been worse if Voldemort allowed. Apparently he didn’t want the risk of any of them impregnating her, small comfort that was. As it stood, she’d gotten off lightly. And honestly, the crucio hurt worse than what any of them did. She detached herself from it, acknowledged that yes it happened but to carry on because there would be far more trials ahead before reaching the light at the end of the tunnel. So it too was sealed up away in black box and shoved down deep into the floorboards of her mental library. 

As she set about envisioning her fortifications, there was a gentle knock on the door, pulling her from her concentration. Warily, she waited for what happened in silence. There was more knocking, persistent this time, with her name being softly called. Did Bellatrix really have it in her to sound that sweet? She wasn’t stupid, falling for the innocent voice outside the door trick. If that’s what it was.

The abrupt pop in of one the female elves, with bright golden eyes, Amber, put those fears to rest. She disappeared a moment later there was the ripple of wards interrupted and the door opened to reveal Narcissa Malfoy.

Amber ambled up with another tray with potion vials. It dawned on Hermione that she hadn’t even been in that much pain all things considering. It piqued her interest to know just how potent and powerful the Malfoy stock was, and wondered who was their potioneer. Narcissa closed the door behind her and spent a moment strengthening the wards.   
Hermione had to hand it to the woman for remembering the little things like that.

“Drink up or the effects from the last ones will wear off shortly.” She instructed, motioning with her hands in a hurried fashion. Hermione had no reason to disbelieve her, knocking back the pain-relief and what looked like a calming draught. She had to admit, after it went down, she had a very nonplussed demeanor and mindset. If anything, it was suppressing her usual level of emotions that went into her thought process, allowing her to think even more clearly than before.

“My compliments to the chef.” She joked as she set down the empty vial.

“Snape said it will help with your occluding process.” The woman informed her, reaching for her arm to change the bandage. 

Hermione nodded. “Ah, I can see that. All my anxiety is set aside. It’s almost like I feel nothing, they’re there but…muted.”

“After what happened last night, he knew you needed to make faster progress.” Narcissa tenderly traced the letters of her married name etched into the young girl’s arm, dabbing the dittany with care. It was an act of cruelty most kind, or else something worse would’ve occurred. “He knows you hold secrets that need locking away. He has faith in you.”

Hermione turned to the lovely blonde matriarch. “So you know then? He’s a double agent.”

“Of course I do. We made the Unbreakable Vow that he would protect my son. He did what Draco was unable to do in the moment, but even he cannot protect him from what he’s tasked with tonight.”

“And you know what happened last night?”

Narcissa closed her eyes and breathed in. “Yes.” Her answer sounded so small.

“Don’t worry about it. I knew something like that would happen when I got caught.” Narcissa flinched at the statement. “And had it not been for Draco’s instruction on Occlumency I may not have seen it through. Almost feels like a bad dream really.”

The mother regarded her carefully as she rewound new bandaging around the wounded arm. Such a task was beneath a woman of her station, but she needed to see for herself, the strength of character the girl possessed that made her son risk life and limb for her. No ordinary mudblood here, nothing ordinary about her at all. The very word was an insult to the power she felt just beneath the skin, in the light behind her eyes, in the force in which sshe spoke and the way she carried herself. A Gryffindor through and through.

She hesitated on her question, but she had to know. “How has my son treated you?”

Hermione sat crossed legged, arm tilted up and resting upon her thigh. “In school? Or here? For the two are vastly different.”

“Here darling. I know about your classroom rivalry.”

“He has an absurd sense of entitlement, claiming that he owns all of me and can take what he wants at any time. And yet…when we’re alone…he treats me like I’ve been his girlfriend of some time. So casual and familiar, and tells me things…And he practically begged me to allow him to kiss me. I didn’t think he harbored anything but contempt.” She turned towards the woman. “Can I believe him? I can’t give him my heart if this just all bluster until this rides its course.”

Lady Malfoy was hardly at a loss for words in her life, taught since birth to always have a reply on her lips to any question asked, to deflect if necessary, and to apply false pleasantries where needed. But in regards to this young witch and her son’s unusual circumstance, it was hard to say where the line between reality and pretending lay.

“Are you afraid of him?”

The brunette shook her head. “No. I’ve never feared him. Yesterday took me by surprise but I soon figured out why and then it made it all the more confusing for I understood what he was doing and why. If anything, I’d say he was the one afraid.”

A strange side-effect of the emotional blocking potion….it behaved quite similar to Veritaserum, lowering a person’s inhibition and allowing them to speak freely. The only difference was having the freewill to do so or decline. But it would appear Hermione Granger was a bluntly honest person to a fault. Narcissa had to disengage lest she find herself falling into a rabbit hole of inquiries that could lead to answers she may not be ready to hear.

“Secure your mental fortress Miss Granger. Protect the Order and Draco.” She said in parting, patting the girl’s knee before leaving with her elf.

Draco had every reason to be afraid. Only a few days here and Narcissa could feel herself pulled into the young witch’s gravity, her light like the sun bequeathing sustenance to the satellites around her. It was quite the temptation, the urge she somehow unearthed that caused the woman to want to protect her. Heaven knows how her son felt, having her in his arms and in his bed. He may already be lost to her lure. And that was dangerous. 

……………………………

Night had fallen, with hours being spent in the hastily slapped together plan to make a convincing scene for Draco to present to his master upon his arrival. Like a cheap production play thrown together at the last minute with the smallest cast possible, Nymphadora and Remus were disguised to resemble Mr. and Mrs. Granger with the ease of her ability to morph into a direct copy of the woman from the image shown to her by use of Legilimens. Remus had been transfigured along with a series of illusion charms in place that would stay and work naturally with his reactions, for he couldn’t be seen being emotionally stiff like a store mannequin. 

They both had to change into more muggle looking attire-with Harry pointing out just the kind of thing they wore to be believable. Then they had wrestled with the way to go about it, for Remus adamantly refused to allow Draco to shoot an Avada in their direction, no matter how well-aimed it may be. It was far too risky. It led to a lengthy argument that the Avada was preferred because it left no mark, and would be detected with the Priori Incantatem when he handed his wand over. But projectile spells were not always straight forward, and even being off by an inch could be the difference between life and death. Other spells were suggested, something that would be believable to cause death in two muggles without actually killing the people being struck.

…………………………………

Narcissa wandered the halls of her home like a cat avoiding eggshells, no sound and with delicate poised steps that betrayed none of the unease in her heart. She walked with purpose and a destination in mind, praying the spying snake was not slithering in the shadows in her wake. She did not need to draw attention to what she needed to confirm. Most evenings, Bellatrix was off with the other Death Eaters doing Merlin knows what if she wasn’t bedding the Dark Lord, and it gave her reprieve that she otherwise experienced little of nowadays. 

The troops were being rallied, sources being sought out, resources gathered… Fenrir was turning more werewolves at an alarming rate. Something massive was in the works, and it was coming soon. The dark lord was planning an attack on a large scale, he was plotting…

But now she had a more pressing matter at hand.

Preventing her son from becoming a murderer.

………………………………..

Draco had gone through three more cigarettes as he swore his dueling ability and aim was precise, Remus proclaiming he’d not endanger his wife’s life, Tonks trying to convince them both that she could dodge in time but had neither convinced, and Harry clutching his scar as he fought the rising nausea brought on by the anxiety of this façade. They went through a list of possible attack spells but all would leave Remus and Tonks in too grave of shape to not risk permanent injury and Draco was running out of time.

“Listen old man, I will Imperio your arse right here and now into letting me nearly blast you with the Avada unless you have a better fucking idea to appease the Dark Lord!” he hissed with unveiled vehemence. “You’ve already been disguised to the nines, now quit pussyfooting around so I can do my fucking job and protect Hermione!”

He slammed his cigarette to the ground and stomped on it, Harry wincing with the memory of how that foot felt against his face on the train in sixth year. The silence settling over the quartet was deafening until Remus pulled himself to his full height and came to a resolute conclusion.

“Alright Draco, the Avada it is.” He stated in a mellow voice. “You’ve made your case. Let’s just practice with a few simple missiles so we know exactly how to fall.” He took his wife’s hand and walked over to the front of the residence. At the arrival of dusk they cast a notice-me-not charm along with several muggle repellers and silencers so their skit could play out unobserved.

Harry stepped over to his former classmate, hands in the pockets of his hoodie jumper. “Uh…Draco?”

“Don’t get in on me about that, he’s wasting my time trying to play it saf-”

“I wasn’t going to. I know what the dark lord wants, and he won’t settle for anything less than the Avada. But tell me…you’ll take care of her, right? When this all over?” he shifted his shoulder with a wave of his pocket clad arm. 

Draco blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. Harry still couldn’t ignore the dark blot on his neck. Hard to imagine Hermione capable of doing something like that, but he didn’t want to be shown the evidence of it.

“I’ll do what I can Potter. There’s no guarantee any of us are making it out of this war alive. Just as long as HE goes first I’m happy.”

“You know…you’re putting a lot of yourself out there for only having her with you for three days. And unless some miracle happened, I’m gonna say that this is something that’s been-”

“Potter.” Draco interrupted sternly, voice like lead. “Don’t.”

Harry shrugged and puffed his cheeks up in a silent face that he knew something but wasn’t judging, but totally was loving the little revelation. He stepped aside and kept track of time as Draco shot at the couple time and time again, with them falling in several different believable ways until they were comfortable enough for him to shoot the real shot. It was nearing ten o’clock, and Draco needed at least an hour to steadily occlude the majority of this event and save just the vital part.

………………………………

Blood magic was tricky, especially when using a source not of the party the spell was intended for. But having a sample of the blood relation could give leeway into having a high percentage of success. Holding the bloody bandages from Hermione’s wound, Narcissa incanted an old location spell while scrying over a map of the world, with several more maps laid out in close proximity once she knew the country location.

At first, the planchette remained stationary on England-as she expected-until she strengthened her focus and commanded it to find the nearest blood relation; the parents. She held her wand aloft and kept repeating Quaerere as it jittered loosely across Europe before darting straight over the mass of China and the smattering of islands in that region before settling over Australia and remained.

Narcissa let out a heavy breath and shook out her hand, having put far too much energy into that spell. When she looked at the map she blinked wildly for several seconds. Australia? She darted around for one of the maps she’d pulled down from the archive shelves and laid it smooth against the table, then plucked the planchette up from the world map lying on the floor-for it was a large tapestry sized map detailing every country in uncanny accuracy-and set it off to the side of the island country, in the Great Barrier Reef.

She tapped her wand to the bloody bandage, incanting Quaerere once more and watched as it slid straight from its ocean based location into the region known as New South Wales, and flittered Sydney and Newcastle. It wouldn’t get much more precise than that without a sample of their actual blood, not their daughter’s. 

She shook her head in wonder. The Grangers were as far from Great Britain as one could get, they posed no threat at all, why have them executed? Unless it wasn’t about eliminating a threat but another tactic used to break Miss Granger without another assault to her person. 

Had the dark lord given him the task with every intention to fail? Did he know they were so far out of the country, practically hiding from the war-for surely if they had not left they would’ve been found and hunted down already? Her mind raced with the implications of more deceit and lies, more cruel and unjust punishment to befall her son.

…………………………………

Harry’s heart was in his throat as he watched the married pair walk from a short distance away, staying on the curb and holding hands, whispering and even sharing a laugh as they approached their home. A figure in black suddenly came from the shadows, bringing them to a step.

“Mr. and Mrs. Granger?” the stranger asked.

“Yes?” the man replied. “Can we help you?”

“Yes. You can.” The stranger answered, lifting a wand and aiming at the couple. “Avada Kedavra!”

A bright lime green bolt shot forth, zipping through the air at them. At the second Draco shouted, Harry slammed his hand down on the horn of the muggle vehicle he was currently hiding in, giving Draco the distraction needed to turn his head so Tonks and Lupin could accurately dodge the instant death spell and fall to the ground safely. Draco whipped his head back to the fallen pair, and Harry hit the horn again-another signal-and slowly walked to them, taking in the sight of the two disguised imposters playing possum.

All he needed was a few seconds of unblinking eyes and unmoving chests, and then he was satisfied with his result, he spun on his heel and walked off into the dark, apparating with a crack.

Harry shoved the door open and practically fell over himself as he ran to his former professor and his wife and checked for signs of life. Immediately, the held breaths whooshed out and eyes fluttered.

“That was the single most terrifying thing I’ve ever had to do.” Remus huffed, pushing up into a sitting position. “And to think he wielded that spell with such precision…”

“He did say he could do it.” Harry countered. “If there’s one thing I know about Draco Malfoy, it’s if he says he can do something, then you better believe it.”  
…………………………

The Dark Lord sat in Lucius’ high back chair in the east drawing room, holding the 10¾", vine wood, dragon heartstring wand and cast Priori Incantatem. He watched the tip light up with the telltale lime green signature of the Avada as smoke wisped and showed the scene of two people shot down before dissipating. He said nothing, but the young accolade knew there was one more burden of proof to share. He knelt to one knee and allowed his master to probe his mind for the recent memory, finding it played out just as the wand’s image had…and him standing over two dead muggles before turning away.

“Marvelous work my boy.” Voldemort’s praise slid off his tongue and slithered down Draco’s spine with chilling effect. “You’ve finally earned that mark bequeathed to you. A two-for-one kill as well. Bella tells me you’ve become quite the crack shot despite not having the spine to wield such a spell. You’ve made your mentor proud.”

“Thank you sir. I’ve long awaited the chance to redeem myself properly.”

“And you have. We must celebrate this momentous occasion.”

Draco barely contained a grimace behind a stoic face. Before he could voice any protest, feign exhaustion, or suggest having his own preferred method of celebration, his hand was holding a snifter of firewhiskey and Death Eaters were flooing in, clapping him on his back and laughing, cracking crude jokes and talking about their first kills like they were in a hunting lodge.

The only thing that made it bearable was that the werewolf did not make an appearance; otherwise he might’ve turned the wand on him and made his first kill for real.   
……………………………

It was half past two in the morning when heavy pounding on the bedroom door roused Hermione from her slumber, utterly confused as to who and why until she heard the slurred demand that she open it for him. She rolled her eyes, just how was she supposed to do that when he warded it locked every time he left? And his mother had done the same too.

“I can’t you drunk idiot.” She shouted back at him. “Go sleep somewhere else if you can’t unlock the door.”

“Witch, opeen thuh door.”

“For fuck’s sake Draco, I thought you could hold your liquor.” She tossed the pillow over her head, hoping if he got brassed off enough that he’d heed her advice. But no, he was far too gone for common sense and filled with gut wrenching self-loathing at the charade he was having to play.

“Let. Me. Innah.” He slapped his palm against the front. “I diiid my mishun. Werr celaberating.”

“Correction; you’re celebrating. I’m trying to sleep. Now go find a bed.”

“Bitch, yer in mah bed.” He growled.

“Then fucking figure out how to get in here you ferret!” she hollered hotly, now quite irritated that this debacle was carrying on.

“I order you!” he screamed. But nothing happened. “Hermahonee Jeen Grangur you filthly litt’l Mudblood, don’t you tell me whut ta dooo!” He pounded on the door. Either by sheer will or because he held her wand in his hand, the door was nearly blasted off its hinges as he staggered in, hair sticking up off to one side and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, untucked from his pants, and oddly enough barefoot as he waltzed in pointing her own wand at her.

“Congradu-fucking-lations.” She slowed clapped. “Brilliant work. Why don’t you just blast a skylight in here while you’re at it? I’m sure it’ll fit in with this antiquated medieval gothic aesthetic you’ve got going on here!”

He scrunched his face up in utter confusion at so many words and how fast they came at him. In response he just jerked his head around and with a lazy wave of his non-wand hand, said “It’ch my room, can doo ‘atever I want toit.”

Spoken like a true spoiled brat, she thought with an irritated shake of her head. She was certainly in no mood for his shit now and flung the blanket back over her head and curled up to indicate she was going back to sleep.

“No yeh don’t.” he growled, pointing the wand. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

“Draco, don’t!” she cried out, but it was too late. Rather than just lifting the blanket into the air, the drunken fool managed to incant it properly and use enough focus to lift her up as well. She cried out as she was suspended in air, being waved up and down as he got carried away with his little power trip, laughing at her distress until he lost control and dropped her on the floor. She fell with a sickening thud, landing on her wounded arm and released an ear piercing shriek, suddenly snapping him into sobriety and garnering the attention of his parents.

They charged onto the scene to find a blasted door, a crying girl holding an injured arm, and their drunken idiot of a spawn with a dumbfounded look on his face.  
Narcissa stormed into a queenly rage, with a hand flying against his cheek, leaving him red with shame and pain as she relinquished the wand from his grip. Lucius knelt down to Hermione, cautiously offering his hand to her but she couldn’t let go of her left arm to take it.

“It’s broken.” She cried, rolling and fidgeting as he once again reached for her.

“Here, come now.” He said gently, bringing her to her feet by carefully placing a hand at her lower back and holding her right elbow. Once upright she almost fell over as pain rippled through her. She glared bitterly at Draco as his father began leading her out of the bedchamber, Narcissa verbally slaughtering him for his idiotic behavior and endangerment of the girl before ordering him to go to his bed. She stormed out of the room, aimed the wand at the doors and repaired them, only to give them a firm slam in her departure, muttering motherly disappointment.

They escorted her to a smaller suite down the hall, called for some elves, and set to healing her arm. Given that the bone break was in the same arm cut by a cursed blade, it was ten times as painful when healing, and they did not silence the room, letting her screams ricochet off the walls and into their son’s ears. All to Bella’s delightful laughs as she lounged in her bedroom suite, still nursing a glass of firewhiskey before she eventually passed out.

Her Dark Lord never failed to deliver when he promised a night of fun.  
…………………………


	11. Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco wakes up to see firsthand what he’s done.
> 
> Hermione gambles with a life threatening plan.

Wednesday, April 8th 1998

There was a crushing, squeezing, throbbing pain against his temples. His mouth was as dry as the musty antique tomes in the library’s archive, and his eyes felt tacky. For some reason his feet were cold but the rest of him was hot. When he finally stirred and took stock of his surroundings he found himself tangled up in his bedsheets-alone-and still wearing the clothes he had on last night. And everything smelled like that one hundred and fifty year old Ogden’s.

He nearly retched then.

He smacked his lips and flicked his tongue around to moisten them and swallowed a few times to get his mouth salivating. He’d never had a hangover like this. Then again, he normally didn’t drink liquor six times his age. And someone must’ve charmed his glass into never emptying either. He couldn’t very well walk around with an empty glass when it was supposedly his first-kill party? Course not, that was just plain rude. And Aunt Bella was absolutely so giddy that she bounced around like a vapid cheerleader and challenged him to have shots.

Yeah, maybe he shouldn’t have tried keeping up with her.

At some point he lost his shoes.

He groaned when he lifted his head and then promptly plopped it down upon his pillows. 

“Granger….” He groaned, figuring she was sleeping in her tent because of how sprawled he was across the bed. “Hey sweetheart…come on out now…” he bemoaned unknowingly to an empty room. But silence was deafening, and every second of it made him more concerned that something was wrong.

He couldn’t very well raise his voice because that simply hurt too much. And moving from his prone position also caused far too much nausea.

“Fuuuug…” he groaned, swiping a hand over his face. Something had to give.  
………………………..

Hermione was gently roused by the bright eyed elf she’d familiarized herself with so well and was grateful for the elf’s use of magic to help her sit upright. Her left arm was now wrapped in a sling and braced and hurt like hell. But the pain in her arm was secondary to the pain her chest, after hearing him speak like that, swear those vile words and point her own wand at her.

Why was he so wasted? Had something gone wrong with his mission? But then, they wouldn’t have been celebrating. And celebrating meant there were two dead bodies. She felt acid build up in her throat at the thought he’d picked two random muggles to pass off as her parents and kill. Oh dear god, please tell me he didn’t do that…

She took stock of her new accommodations, curtsey of the lord and lady of the house. A charming guest suite that included her own bathroom and wardrobe and even a lovely bay window with a reading nook. Who knew it took having a broken arm to get such preferential treatment? And how gracious of Lucius to be the one practically carrying her in, she could’ve sworn she heard him whisper an apology but it was drowned out by the torrent of degradation Draco was enduring at the hands of his mother.

Now she had a keen idea who wore the robes in the relationship.

“Amber is here to serve the young Miss Malfoy.” The elf piped up. “Anything young Miss needs, she but has to ask.”

Hermione was about to state that she was indeed no Miss Malfoy but was aware of the fragile self-esteem of enslaved house elves and their need to always defer to their “betters” by proper pronouns and titles. Being placed in Draco’s room for three days would give any elf the impression that there was something intimate between them, having been stripped bare and scrubbed down her first day here. So yeah, according to the elves, they were serving their next lady of the house. Perhaps if she gained enough of their sympathy and support she could later turn around and free them all.

“Thank you Amber. Has anyone said you have such pretty eyes?”

The little creature bobbed her head up and down. “Lady Malfoy told me many years ago when I first started my duties and she was young like you.”

Young like me.

Hermione gave the elf a look over. To be honest, despite all her research on their kind, there hadn’t been much other than the basic facts of possessing powerful magic and yet so easily cajoled into servitude that no elves existed in the wild unless they’ve been freed by their masters, and even if their master died they could still be passed along to further generations or by contact to another family. A family’s power could be measured in either their monetary wealth or by how many elves they had at their command. Something neither the Weasley’s possessed having fancied a more simplistic approach to life and their fondness for muggle technology.

The Malfoy’s on the other hand, held most of the deck close to their chest, carefully investing their gold into venues that could easily be relied upon to last for generations and accumulate interest. Marrying into the Black and Lestrange families also solidified their power. All marriages were made like business transactions and like the game of Risk, expanding their empire. 

She felt like a captured pawn.

Well, pawn was too lowly. If she were a pawn then she wouldn’t be getting such treatment. No, she more like a capture Bishop or Knight. She wasn’t vain enough to consider herself the rank of Queen, but she certainly had value. Her servitude to the Malfoy family would ensure her safety as long as she gave them a tactical advantage in this war. Perhaps she could provide that snake-skinned sorcerer with something other than Order information…

“Amber, please help me dress for breakfast.” She said, wondering if she was going mad with the idea bubbling up in her brain, or just having spent too much time among Slytherins that she was starting to think like one.  
…………………………..

Narcissa woke with a vengeance, going so far as to slam drawers and wardrobe doors and comb her hair a little too harshly before storming out of the bedchamber, leaving Lucius to ponder if he should worry for his son and heir’s life. Still in possession of Hermione’s wand, she flung the doors open to his room so violently that he jumped backwards off his bed and hit the floor, sputtering about like a gaping fish when she sprayed him with a jet of ice cold water.

“Mother!” he screamed, flailing like he was on fire, the chilled water snapping him into instant alertness, backpedaling into his bathroom, trying to find sanctuary from the water torture.

He’d done a lot of stupid shit in his youth, but he’d never had a wake-up call like this. So he knew he was in deep. And wondering if Hermione’s absence from his room was a contributing factor. Once the water beatdown stopped and he was sprawled on his bathroom floor, an utter soaking mess, he met his mother’s eyes and swore in that moment he feared her more than the Dark Lord.

Sweet Salazar, what did I do?

“Never in all my years have I ever been so disappointed in you Draco Lucius Malfoy!” she announced with regal authority, standing as she was, glaring down at him with eyes of blue fire. The tilework amplified her voice to that of a mandrake’s screech and he swore his ears were bleeding. “You’ll not touch another drop of Ogden’s or even sparkling champagne after your buffoonery and crude mistreatment of Miss Granger!”

His eyes snapped open. Crude mistreatment? Oh god….

He vaguely remembered screams. Her shouting no. Her saying something that he should find his own bed….

“And you damn well know the protocol of spellcasting while intoxicated! You could’ve killed her with your carelessness! Had you even a modicum of common sense you would’ve slunk off to a guest room rather than Blast. Your. Own. Door. Open!”

Mother of Merlin, her wraith could terrify a hoard of dragons into retreat.

He opened his mouth. For some reason, his jaw hurt.

“You do not get to speak.” She hissed. His mouth firmly closed. “Death Eater or not, you still live under my roof and will abide by the rules and etiquette you were raised with. And you WILL apologize to that poor girl, and keep your sodding hands to yourself. Claimed or not, you will treat her better than that.”

Her wraith aside, he couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong. He hadn’t hurt her in the slightest yesterday, if anything, what they’d done in the library was fucking amazing, given that she was the one in control. If his mum was this livid then he must’ve done something other than pretend to hurt her.

He may have crossed the line and not have realized it.

Dear god, have I truly become a monster?  
………………………….

It technically couldn’t be called eavesdropping if the voice could be heard through the entire hallway, and probably the rest of the manor as well. Hermione froze, having never heard such a thorough verbal onslaught of maternal disappointment-and she’d been in the presence of a very distraught Molly Weasley boxing in her twins’ ears on one particular occasion. She wasn’t sure which mother had it worse, Molly with a Quidditch team worth of hotheads or Narcissa with one egocentric dragon for a son.

All the times she’d wished for one of their professors to tear into him for his attitude, behavior, antics, and cruel remarks couldn’t live up to the reality of it happening, and at the hands of his very own mother. It didn’t take a genius to see that he favored her over his father. It was Lucius’s failure that led him into taking the Dark Mark, him being tasked with Dumbledore’s murder, and him fixing the vanishing cabinet. And then Lucius had spent time in Azkaban, dragging the Malfoy name into the dirt. And finally, in a desperate act of humility, Lucius had given up his home to the monster he served. 

Had Lucius been the one charging in, roaring his disappointments she was sure it would result in a fistfight between father and son. Then again, it wasn’t her problem. Nope. Draco brought this all upon himself and she couldn’t help but preen her feathers over the satisfaction. She glanced at her reflection as she ran a hand over the simple button up summer dress Amber selected for her and noticed a bruise had developed on her left cheek from her collision to the floor. Amber offered to vanish away the bruise with a healing spell but she refused. Let Draco see his handiwork, she mused, it’ll teach him a lesson. 

She had the elf escort her down to the dining room, where she was surprised to see Lucius already sitting, dressed for the day with paper in one hand and strong coffee in the other. He motioned for her to sit as if she were a member of the family and he hadn’t sliced her arm up to appease his ruling lord. Cautiously, she took a seat opposite him.

“How fares the arm?” he inquired as one would ask what the weather was like.

“Oh you know, sliced, diced, and broken. I’ve had worse.” She replied dryly.

“So you have.” He was just as quick to respond. “Do eat up.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the others?” If there was one thing she knew of upper society, it was that they took mealtime etiquette quite seriously. It would be rude for her to indulge in anything other than a quick cuppa coffee.

“It is just us, for now.” He stated, watching the way her shoulders seem to slide down in ease. “The rest of the ‘guests’ of last night’s little celebration took their leave, and the Dark Lord will be shortly.”

Oh, so he was still here…

“But Narcissa informed me that you are underweight and thus leeway is being given. You may eat.”

She suddenly felt very self-conscious of her body. Surely, he’d seen it for himself as she’d been stripped down in this very room. For him to say his wife was the one to inform him was a polite deflection from having to point out how he knew. Amber went ahead and slathered butter and jam on her scones and poured her a generous mug of coffee with milk and sugar. All she had to do was rest her left arm and use her right to bring the food to her mouth. Amber had seen to making it as easy as possible for her.  
It was surreal, sitting here with a man she’d envisioned to be cruel and cold-hearted, calculating and willing to inflict harm on others. After all, hadn’t she faced him and a dozen other Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries? He’d been an imposing figure then, in dark robes and silver mask, hand outstretched for the prophecy orb.  
That was not the man before her now.

Before she made any silly sentiments, the very air chilled and churned into a depression of dark magic, spelling the arrival of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

“Lucius….dining with the pet are we?” his raspy voiced crackled with amusement.

“My son is running lax in his duties this morning.” The elder Malfoy stated. “A little too much imbuing of fine spirits. I’m merely seeing to the task. Responsibility lies with the name after all.”

She almost dropped her mug. Had she just heard Lucius correctly?

The dark slit eyes of the overlord grazed at her nerves as he took in her newest set of injuries. “It would seem your son doesn’t quite know his strength…” his voice was teasing, mocking…

“He’s new to it. There is a learning curve my Lord.” The father defended lightly with plainspeaking. It wasn’t a lie nor was it an excuse. She had to admit, the Malfoy’s were talented in their wordplay.

As she could be.

“My good sirs, may I be permitted to go outside today?” she asked in her upmost politest tone, addressing both men with imploring innocent eyes. It was almost comical how heavy the silence that fell over them as they exchanged looks and then back to her.

She was testing the waters to reveal to her just who was in charge. In all things.

The Dark Lord barked out a laugh, triggering Lucius to follow through with a weak little chuckle although he was clearly too stunned to be convincing. “Oh isn’t this one hilarious? Asking permission to go outside? It seems she’s taken to the role as pet quite seriously.”

“Quite.” Malfoy deadpanned, wondering what the hell she was playing at.

“Shouldn’t that be a question for your little master?” Voldemort sneered with unveiled glee.

Now was time for her to not mince words.

“Seeing as I am in the presence of both his father and master, whom he answers to, I am aware I also answer to you as well. I know the chain of command.”

“Oh?” the dark wizard chortled, turning to his underling. “I was told that this one did possess intelligence. It seems that was no great exaggeration.” He turned back to her, eyes peering straight through her. “Plotting an escape attempt?”

“No sir.” She answered with eyes cast down. “It’s just that I’ve heard how beautiful the gardens are here. I would like the chance to see for myself. Even if it must be by chaperone. It’s silly…” She idly drew circles into the tablecloth. “Draco would boast about his beautiful home and I’d pretend I wasn’t interested…but I would sit and imagine how it would look.”

She hoped she hadn’t laid it on too thick.

Lucius drummed his fingers along the table top. “She’ll be chaperoned my lord, unless you believe she does not deserve such a privilege.” He carefully suggested.

Hermione felt a chill as the oppressive warlock glided effortlessly around to her side of the table, his hands trailing along the ornate detail of the chair. It was then that Narcissa and Draco arrived, and stood in silence at the scene before them.

“Draco has done well to claim you, knowing you would be of use to us. And certainly, you know your life depends on it. If you wish to continue living in this gilded cage then you’ll see to obeying what is ordered of you.” His fingers barely brushed against her shoulders, to which she flinched ever so slightly, cold as they were. “Even if Potter does not come for you, you will continue serving me, won’t you?”

“Yes sir.” She answered automatically.

“Does knowing that he hasn’t come for you make you see your place yet?” his voiced hissed in her ear. The truth was, however obvious of a trap it was to him, part of her hurt knowing he hadn’t come. Knowing he couldn’t come still didn’t take all the sting.

“Yes.” She nodded. “I see it now. I was never meant to be a part of this world. The only thing I know how to do to prove myself is study and practice everything, and learn what I can. I always knew I had to find someone to keep close to, hoping their influence would protect me.”

Draco was dumbfounded at this scene. Just what the hell kind of nonsense was she spewing? Why was the Dark Lord looming over her-and actually touching her-and how in the hell did she get those injuries? Oh yeah, him. Somehow. But that was moot compared to what was happening now.

“Clever clever clever.” The dark lord sang, his tapered fingertips digging into her upper arms. “So now you’ve found yourself another wizard to latch onto for protection? Willing to sell your soul to the devil to save your pathetic little life?”

No one dared breathe above a whisper.

“I could kill you without batting an eye; you are that insignificant to me. Yet like a pretty little butterfly, you intrigue me enough to keep you under glass. Perhaps a flit around the garden is just what the butterfly needs, eh Draco?” he purred, casting the spotlight to the figures in the doorway.

“Now now, no need to linger on my account, do join us.” His voice changed into a jovial host welcoming guests that sounded nearly human. “We’re having quite the enlightening conversation, aren’t we?”

Lucius nodded, his coffee now lukewarm, forgotten during the entire interlude.

Nervously, Narcissa and Draco took their seats, with her beside her husband, reaching under the table to take his hand, and he choosing the seat next to his pet and his looming master. He dared not select any food or drink until the dark lord stepped away from her.

“Draco, your little butterfly wants to go to the gardens. Perhaps success on your part lies in with….what was it you said? Positive reinforcement? A treat for good behavior?” Draco gave him a firm nod. “I trust that this gift will lead to some substantial intelligence?” he asked, pressing his face against her lush curls as a hand snaked around her throat. “One can always tear the wings off such a delicate creature…so easily…”

“Make me your spy sir, protect me and I’ll give you what you need.”

Narcissa dropped her teacup.

Lucius’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head.

Draco almost slid out of his chair.

Even the elves bringing in further refreshments stopped in their tracks.

“What was that?” the dark lord hissed, hand clenching tighter around her throat. 

For a moment Hermione thought he’d seen right through her charade and was going to simply snap her neck and feed her body to the snake. Such was the shock of her words to him that he nearly did, until he released her throat and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes.

Fuck here it comes!

“Legilimens.”

His presence was dark, dark and cold and nauseating as he slithered into her mental fortress and started tearing through compartments of memories. She let him rifle through as he tore through her muggle childhood, being picked on for excellent marks, having the conferences with her parents and headmaster because she had once again upstaged her teacher, getting her hair pulled, wearing the awful metal mouth jewelry to correct her teeth, the accidental bursts of magic that had people running in fear or calling her names….the acceptance letter, arriving at Hogwarts and being sorted…and then the hostility began….

“She’s a nightmare, honestly! No wonder she hasn’t got any friends!”

Getting blasted by Dolohov.

Seamus Finnigan blowing up his flower rather than transfiguring it into a marble, setting fire to her robes.

Draco zapping her with the Densaugeo.

“You’re fraternizing with the enemy!”

Watching Ron and Lavender clash and snog at the celebration of their game.

Professor Trelawney telling her she couldn’t remember ever meeting a student whose mind was so hopelessly Mundane as hers.

Millicent Bulstrode holding her in a headlock during dueling club in second year.

“Insufferable know it all.”

Draco and members of the Inquisitional Squad holding them hostage in Umbridge’s office as the woman interrogated Harry.

Her holding a box of handmade S.P.E.W. badges and knitted garments, proclaiming that elves needed rights and getting laughed at by a bunch of snooty Ravenclaws.

“No one asked you, you filthy little Mudblood.”

Running through the Forest of Dean with Snatchers on their tail.

Watching Sirius pass through the Veil.

Memories flew in no given order with no particular thread to string them along as he tore through cabinet after cabinet, seeing the world through her eyes as she felt isolated from both the world of muggles from which she came and the wizarding world she’d been thrust into with no lifeline.

Draco was right when he warned her that there’d be no mercy, no escape, and no stopping him. The only way was to make sure what was hidden had been hidden well and her determination to safeguard it outlasted his determination to find it. Unlike Draco, she hadn’t had years’ worth of experience into locking away memories and feelings and developing the ability to splice and paste them like an editor with film. But she wasn’t going to let him find the special box of Order information, hidden among dozens just like it in an attempt to hide in plain sight. Instead a box she deemed “important” caught his attention, and she knew the moment he saw it that he’d tear through-

To feeling Draco’s hands rove over her body, tracing her scars as he trailed his tongue across her neck and down her chest…

Him pressing her against the shelf in the bookcase in the library, lips on hers as they fought for dominance…

Straddling him on the sofa as she raked her nails down his chest as he did to her back…

The connection severed most abruptly, leaving her heaving as if she’d been held under water the entire time and was now gasping for air. She grabbed onto both the table and the chair as she tried gathering her senses, her left hand flailing as it slipped against the backing. Her mind felt violated, like pages ripped from a book and thrown in the air only to be spat upon and then lit on fire. Her mental library was in shambles, all her hard work in tatters as containers and boxes and files were strewn about like the aftermath of a tornado.

She sucked in a breath and nearly collapsed into her plate when the dark lord relinquished his hold on her, as if her skinned burned to the touch. But he seemed almost pleased, given the shark-like gleam from his grinning teeth. Enough was seen to be convincing. His attention turned to Draco, stricken for a second of his master’s intentions before the sinister happy laughter erupted from the reptilian man.

“And here I thought I’d seen it all….” He mused to himself as the Malfoy family gazed at him in terrified wonder. 

“I do believe we have a new secret weapon in our midst. Not only a Mudblood but a turncoat, with strong ties to the enemy side. And a Gryffindor to boot! Oh isn’t this a treat?” He announced to them, as if they hadn’t heard or reacted to her willing deflection. 

Draco felt the blood run from his face. He’d just gained the Order’s trust and now, Hermione was going to break it. What. The. Fuck.

Again taking her face in his hand he peered down at her. “And what do you want in return Mudblood? Go on, tell me your price. What could you possibly want for your treachery?”

“Your protection.” She answered simply.

He scrutinized her carefully. “Explain.”

“From your men.” She stated. “Absolute protection from anyone bearing your mark or following your direct orders. I cannot properly serve you if I am in constant threat of being assaulted again.”

Draco felt sick.

“Is your body that important? Simple flesh and bone for housing your soul? So easily bought with a promise?”

“My body belongs to my master.” She countered, eyes set with firm determination. “I’ll not be shared for anyone’s entertainment, or punishment.”

“For a master that breaks your bones and can tear you apart without a second thought?” he rebuked.

“If that’s what pleases him, yes. But only by him.”

Please, please let this work….

He cocked his head to the side, molted grey skin catching the morning light through the window, giving him an almost shimmery effect. He looked more reptilian than human, the irony of his so-called blood purity initiative. Then again, she also knew the truth of his blood-status.

“Your protection…for your loyalty…a Mudblood spy…”

“I can help you weed out those who truly don’t deserve their magic, those who would be better off as a labor source. Being muggleborn, it’s what we know how to do. There are some of merit, who can serve other families like this one, you needn’t kill them all if you turn your war into a campaign and set legislature permitting who is allowed their magic.”

The fall of a feather could be heard in the deafening silence that followed.

“I’m trustworthy-to them-they’ll listen if I tell them in just the right way. Tell them it’s not only for their survival but it’s the natural order of things. Just look at how small and hidden the wizarding world is in comparison to the muggle one, it’s grossly unfair. They’ve stolen your lands, killed your kind for thousands of years and overpopulated the planet. But you still need a labor force, a lesser class of people to serve the elite. I know my place.”

Draco looked at her with eyes that had truly awakened. What he thought he knew about this witch had merely been a scratch of the surface. He’d clearly underestimated her for all the years he’d known her, never knowing who she was under that lion’s skin.

She was quite possibly more Slytherin than he was.

“A deal then.” Came the resolution everyone had been waiting on. “None of my men, bearing my mark or my order shall touch you, other than those whose name you bear.” 

She nodded in agreement. But a verbal agreement in a dining room with three witnesses would not be enough to suffice, the bargain needed to be sealed. She lifted her arm out of the sling and began unwrapping it to the abject horror of those at the table. When the barely healed letters spelling the family name came into view, she rested her arm up on the table’s surface and swallowed the thick lump in her throat. Every instinct she had telling her she was doing the single most stupidest thing of her life had to be shut out in order for her to look the Devil of the wizarding world in the eye and swear fealty to without breaking into a hysteric fit. Not even knowing what he’d do it, not like it mattered anyway. She made her move, now it was his turn. The final piece moved for either checkmate.

“My word is as good as my bond. My blood as good as gold.” He decreed in a strangely soft tone, drawing his sharp fingertip along the reddened lines in her flesh. She fought against everything to remain still, to keep her eyes on Voldemort as felt bile rise in her throat and her stomach churn like a torrential sea. Having reopened her wounds he then pricked his own finger and languidly let the crimson droplet hang precariously from the tip as if time had no meaning, until it gathered enough weight and fell against her own.  
It burned like acid. Six drops. Six letters.

It took every ounce of self-control Draco had to not swoop in and pull her away from the monster pouring his evil blood into her own. He knew what it felt like to be branded by his wand as it dug into his flesh and etched the snake and skull into his pale skin, but he’d never taken his master’s blood into his own. There was no telling how the intrusion of such darkness penetrating the epitome of goodness felt in her soul. If taking in part of the Dark Lord didn’t somehow corrupt part of it it’d be a miracle.

Her arm was alive with dark magic. She felt the fire pulse in her blood, the urge and eagerness her fingers felt to hurt someone, knowing she very well could. The letters slashed into her skin glowed red for a second, then faded into the normal torn flesh color they were, oozing small amounts of yellowish puss tinged pink with blood. 

“Malfoy’s little Mudblood.” Voldemort glinted with a sense of amusement. “My new secret weapon. Consider yourself now, at least in name, a half-blood with my essence in your veins.”

She licked her lips and forced a smile. “Thank you, gracious sir.” Her voice felt detached from her mind, as if someone else were speaking in her stead. Everything was wrapped in a haze in her peripheral vision; the only thing in focus was the grey skinned ghoul she’d just sworn loyalty to.

The last thing she remembered was the hiss of his voice casting Episkey before she felt the pull of darkness.  
……………………….

Headmaster Severus Snape sat in his office, in the tower spiraling off from the Great Hall, where every headmaster and mistress had sat before him, with their portraits hanging on the walls, with their ghosts lingering in the enchanted paint as they ambled from their own frame and into others.

He couldn’t ever imagine wanting to spend his afterlife like that. It seemed like a whole other level of Hell. But on the opposite side of that coin, having the old friend to speak with was a comfort. Much had been discussed between he and Albus Dumbledore, and even beyond the veil the man continued on in his quest to fight for the Order of the Phoenix.

The old man winced when he heard of the mistreatment Miss Granger had endured while being held captive at Malfoy Manor, that he and Lucius had done whatever they could to not seem suspicious in partaking in the ordeal, but something that would look convincingly cruel. So when it was his turn, he revealed her the truth.

He showed her the night on the Astronomy Tower, executing her beloved Headmaster and then the memory of their plot for it, his Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa to protect Draco, and all the small measures he’d taken in order to actually protect Harry. Her reaction had been visceral at best, nearly breaking the spirit she was invoking to give her strength. She wanted to deny it, beg that it wasn’t true and curse him a thousand ways for being such a bastard, and so she’d bitten her own arm and beat on the table. He watched as she glared daggers into the grey eyes of Lucius Malfoy as he carved his name into her arm with less reaction, daring him almost with that infuriating Gryffindor pride that he honestly admired despite all the trouble it brought.

“She’s in Draco’s hands now, but that does little to guarantee her safety. I’ve brewed a particularly strong emotion suppressing potion that should help speed up her Occlumency training. I know there are things that are in that head of hers that only she knows, whether discussed with you or figured out by her own means. We must be careful in safeguarding that knowledge whilst simultaneously giving then enough to keep her alive.”

“No doubt Tom knows by now that we’ve discovered his secret of immortality. The loss of the diary, ring, and locket cannot be coincidence to him.”

“Yes, and apparently the boys have secured custody of the cup. The diadem has yet to be found.” He replied surly, crossing his arms. Now that Draco had to remain at the manor to protect Miss Granger from the clutches of other Death Eaters, he had no one else to count on to search for it.

“Fear not Severus, a way will present itself.” The old man tutted.

At times Severus wanted to throw something and knock the old headmaster out. The mellow and blasé manner in which portraits spoke was a vivid reminder of the fact that the person was gone, and it was merely a sliver of spirit lingering on canvass. It was then that his Floo roared to life with a desperate Narcissa Malfoy demanding his presence at the manor, something about Miss Granger making a deal with the Dark Lord and becoming a double agent.

He dragged a hand over his face, wondering when that girl was ever going to stop being the single most stupidest smart person he’d ever met.  
……………………………………

“Slow down and repeat that. Remember to breathe this time.” He said, pinching the bridge of his long nose and looking down at the unconscious form of the girl in question.  
She was laid out on her bed in her own room-to Draco’s chagrin-arm sweltering with heat as the cuts oozed, the letters angry red and panting like an exhausted dog as the poison worked its way through her wound. Amber patted her forehead with a cool damp cloth as the Malfoy trio hovered nearby with varying degrees of concern etched across their faces.

“She did WHAT?” his usual stoic demeanor slipped on the last word.

“It all happened so quickly, there was no room to intercede.” Lucius stated. “This was all of her own machination; nothing had been discussed to give any preparation. Naturally we would’ve talked her out of it.”

“Oh right, like that would’ve worked.” Draco scoffed. “Can’t just stomp your cane into the floor and say I forbid it. Granger only listens to herself, as if the rules don’t apply.”  
“The Dark Lord wouldn’t kill her if he agreed to bring her into his confidence, so why is this happening?” Narcissa looked to the Potion Master.

“Simply put, her body is having adverse reactions to his blood. He may not have the intension to, but this could very well kill her if she can’t pull through. Being undernourished as she’s been for the past few months will take its toll on any normal person, let alone one that’s been tortured and given a foreign source of blood. I’ll have to brew a slew of potions that should help balance her nutritional intake as well as blood purifiers.”

The unconscious girl thrashed in her torrential slumber as if fighting off invisible foes. 

“We need to keep her alive Severus, she’s integral to the Order and to bringing the end about the war.” Narcissa pleaded.

“I’m well aware of that. Dumbledore selected her and the Weasley boy to accompany Potter on a special mission, one I cannot say. They’ve made progress though, but I am not in contact with them to know for certain.”

Draco hesitated; licking his dry lips and watching Hermione sweat and suffer in silence. “I am.” He blurted out suddenly. “The coin…the coin is a means of communication…and I spoke with him.”

All eyes focused on the young lord.

Fuck. Might as well lay it all out there given that they were in the rare moment of having the house devoid of the dark lord, death eaters, and the fucking nightmare that was Nagini. 

“I found her house, empty. Her parents were gone, moved out.” He spoke quickly, in short broken sentences. Etiquette could step aside for the sake of the dire situation. “The coin had a new message on it. Then I realized it was a message board for the Order and got word to Potter.”

He turned to his mother. “That cousin of mine, Andromeda’s daughter, she showed up disguised as him at first. The visual resemblance is uncanny but she gave herself away by other means. She and Remus Lupin also just had a baby.”

Narcissa’s eyes lit up as her hand flew to her mouth, wanting to inquire more about her disowned family but knew time was of the essence. Snape couldn’t be gone long.

“They’re Order members and helped me pull off the fake assassination. I don’t know where the Grangers are but we made it look believable. I haven’t killed anyone yet.”

Lucius seemed to sink his shoulders with relief as Narcissa threw her arms around her son. Of course she already knew, but to hear how he’d gone about it and the risk involved not only for him but all parties involved.

“What have you told Potter?” Snape demanded.

“Had Hermione send a Patronus message telling him she’d been compromised and the next message would be made under duress-the Dark Lord ordered for her to have Potter come face him-and then I shared some memories by Legilimency so he knew I wasn’t lying. I can communicate with him again. He has to know what this brazen witch just did, and if she even survives….” He growled, shaking his head with frustration that his actions last night may have very well led up to her suicidal ploy. He slunk to the edge of the bed and rested his head in his hands.

“You know what you all have to do. I will do my part. Now it depends on her…” he drawled, turning to take in her visage once more. If someone had told him that seven years ago he’d have the student dubbed the Brightest Witch of her Age constantly at odds with his godson and on the opposing side of the impending war, to only flip the tables around and strike a deal with the darkest wizard of their time then he would’ve crassly remarked that that person needed their head examined by a Mind Healer.

Actually, that made perfect sense. Of course she would. The courageous and noble Gryffindor would willingly drink poison and set herself on fire if that’s what it took to save her friends and put an end to the war. A sharp gasp escaped her, as if in pain, before her eyes shot open, bloodshot and dilated, taking in her surroundings. Draco turned to greet her, ready to apologize for his stupid behavior from last night and tear into her for her own this morning but never got the chance.

Her left hand shot out and clasped around his throat, silencing him before he had the chance to speak as she bolted upright and pushed him backwards, him backpedaling as she advanced until she rammed him against the piece of furniture. Snape’s fingers merely slid off her form as if she were lathered in soap and he couldn’t find purchase as she glanced by him without sparing him a thought. Narcissa squeaked out a frightened gasp as Lucius went rigid at the sight of the young girl manhandling their son.

With his spine digging into the knobs of the dresser and struggling to breathe, Draco barely took in the blackness of her eyes before a voice laced with venom addressed him along with a sharp little punch to the face. Again, the nose.

“You’re a pathetic excuse of a wizard to dare turn my own wand against me. The most selfish, egotistical, narcissistic cunt I have ever met who only feels good about himself by hurting others.” She squeezed a little harder. Snape’s attempts to even grab her was met with an unseen force. “To think you possessed some sort of empathy, well that’s on me. But never again Draco. You will NEVER come at me like that again or I will rip your throat out.”

Narcissa panically pawed at her husband’s robes. “Do something!” she whispered shouted at him.

“Gra….” He choked, trying to pry her fingers off his throat.

“You. Don’t. Deserve. Me.” she hissed. “Do well to remember that.”

Apprehensively, the elder Malfoy came up and managed to dislodge the tiny hand from his son’s throat, leaving Draco to slump to the floor in a boneless heap and hack for breath as she stood with eyes unfocused and disorientated, her breathing in short gulps through her mouth before she wavered and succumbed to another wave of darkness. Lucius was left with an unconscious girl in his arms as his wife tended to their thoroughly thrashed son. Snape’s usual aloofness was replaced with dumbfounded rage.

“Just what was that? How can-” he stepped up and tried to just place his hand on her shoulder, brushed off like the opposing force of a magnet.

“Her protection deal with the Dark Lord.” Lucius answered, setting her back on the bed and letting Amber take over with levitating her into a restful positon and then strapping her to the mattress should she awaken like that again. “No Death Eater or follower shall touch her, except for those whose name she bears. Hence, my son and I. She belongs to the House of Malfoy.”

He wiped a hand down over his face. “My god…does she even…does HE know what he’s done?” he muttered, tilting upward to the ceiling. “What did she promise him for this?”

“Becoming the next You.” Lucius replied. “His next double agent. Given that Dumbledore is dead, you no longer need to play lackey to the old man. But the Order is his current opposition, and she is his in. I have no idea what she’s going to do but what he saw when he was in her mind but it convinced him. She turned herself in a weapon.”

In the background, they could hear Draco whimpering as Narcissa tended to his nose. “Ow, ow ow.”

Snape spun his heel to his battered godson. “Contact Potter. Inform him immediately that she is unstable, her connection with the Dark Lord is erratic and dangerous and anything she knows can be used against them. They’re not safe and they can’t trust her.”

Draco started to sputter but Snape cut him off. “Think about it! Do you know how they ended up in the Department of Mysteries in the first place? Because HE realized the connection he had between himself and the boy could be used against him. He planted that vision in Potter’s head to lure him there and he followed. Anything she tells them, they’ll believe, even if she is doing the same thing. Do you want the blood of the Order on your hands for not warning them of this?...Do it!” he pointed sharply at him, jostling the boy up to his feet.

“I must return to the school. I’ll start those potions right away. Keep her monitored, hydrated, but do not let your guard down. You’ll have to use your best judgment on what you tell her.” He parted with the warning, leaving the family to their own devices.  
……………………………..

He could barely light his cigarette without his hand shaking, the wands’ tip wavering precariously as he tried bringing the lit tip to the end of the tobacco fag. He hadn’t even properly healed from his broken nose and throttling before his mother all but pushed him into the Floo if he didn’t agree to apparate immediately. As soon as he reached the ward barrier he took out the coin and quickly scrawled:

‘Otter’s house. Just Potter. NOW. –D’

And now found himself caught between having a panic attack and nearly fainting. He hadn’t even taken in breakfast and felt like throwing up. His shocking water alarm and the shower he was thrown into had boosted his system, but now it was his mind reeling for sanity. He kept playing it over in his head, wondering what had he missed that led to this monumental clusterfuck before his arrival and if there was any chance he would’ve had in preventing it.

He didn’t even have it in him to look suave and posed for dramatic effect when he heard the air crack with apparation and took a long drag from the cigarette, bracing for how he was going to tell someone he just earned the trust of that his best friend had gone off the deep end when Potter came up, dressed in jeans and a battered jumper, looking as normal as ever.

“Are you Potter or Tonks?” he asked instantly. “I’m not in the mood for games.”

“It’s me.” he said. “The coup worked then?” Draco affirmed with a curt nod. “The Order members were apprehensive at first, but I pulled the memory and showed them. It was enough. Well, not to Ron though…that’s no surprise-”

“Shut up and listen.” He cut in coldly. “You’re all fucked. Everything you’ve ever entrusted to her is up for fair game now and you’ve got very little time to hide your tracks….She….ohmygod Potter, she….” He started breathing heavy, grabbing feebly at the streetlight for support. 

“What? What happened?”

“Merlin be damned Potter she struck a deal with him.” Draco felt bile rise in his throat. “I couldn’t stop it. I had no idea she was going to….She just jumped into the deep end before anyone could pull her back…”

Harry grabbed the shoulder of the pale blond and forced him to meet his eye. Harry saw pure terror in those grey irises. His stomach clenched in knots with all the worst case scenarios that could’ve happened. Hermione being kidnapped, tortured, and killed all came to mind. But not this. Not a bargain with the evil entity. Draco pulled another drag and took the moment to regain some composure. But only a modicum.

“What I’m about to show you…it’s hard to take in. Don’t freak out until I finish because I do not want to have to recast that again. And then you take that information to the Order. Change your codes. Abandon your safehouses. Stock up on polyjuice and false ID’s because not one of you will be safe.” And before Harry could gather his wits to inquire as to why, Draco grabbed the lapels of his corduroy coat and cast Legilimens, walking him through the entire episode that transpired in the dining room, following through with Snape’s advice.

Harry struggled to not fight Malfoy as he watched helplessly as Hermione faced the Dark Lord with all the bravado she possessed and said the treacherous words “make me your spy” before his eyes were watering. When she spoke of needing a strong wizard to provide protection in a world she didn’t belong his heart ached, unsure if it was a ploy or the truth. Offering to list up of those who would be judged as useful in his new world order had him almost throwing up. And then her bargain price; protection from his men…Him pouring his poisonous blood into her wounded arm…

He fell to his knees as Draco slumped against the lamp post, both of them too weary and broken to care about showing their vulnerability to each other. They were both hurting over the same thing, the same person, and the nightmare that was being unleashed. He clutched handfuls of grass and wept, the tears bitter and burning as he retched, muttering ‘what the fuck’ over and over again like a broken record.

“Potter, she has his blood in her now, a connection like you have. He’ll get in her head, he’ll influence her…she nearly strangled me to death in some sort of feverish delirium and we’ve got her under elf surveillance until she pulls through…She’s in a bad way mate….I’m so sorry…I know I promised I’d protect her…but I guess I’m just shit at that like I am with being an assassin.”

“How could this happen?”

Draco shook his head. “It’s probably my fault. I mean, when isn’t something?” he snorted with disdain. “If I hadn’t gotten so sloshed last night and acted like an arse, she might’ve told me that’s what she had planned…or maybe it’s because I fucked up that she went ahead with it. Who the fuck even knows anymore?”

“So no more meeting here then?”

Draco shook his head. “No mate, too much risk. I may not even get the chance to leave the manor now when he comes back. He’s off on a raid in Northern Ireland on some poor muggle supportive group and I’m most certain when he returns he’s gonna put Hermione to the test.”

“We’ll still use the coin.”

“Until she gives that up.” Draco mused bitterly. “Snape said not to trust her. She has no idea what she’s just undertaken upon herself and is a danger to everyone now. He knows how to play the spy, been doing it for twenty years.”

“I still can’t believe it…” Snape a spy? A good guy? All this time?

They wearily got to their feet, brushing grass of themselves and righting their clothes, avoiding each other’s eye now that their raw emotions had subsided. Harry dug into his pocket and tossed something to the petulant Slytherin, watching his Seeker reflexes snatch it from the air with the speed of a cobra strike. When he opened his palm he looked confused.

“It’s a lighter. Muggle device that conjures fire, made just for the purpose of lighting a cigarette.”

Draco held the slender black plastic device in his hand, taking in the simplistic design and the red button at the top. But nothing happened when he pressed it. Harry offered his hand, and then demonstrated how one must brush their thumb along the rough metal toggle and land on the red button, holding it in place for as long as one wished for the flame to burn.

“It’s cheap; you can pick one up at any given petrol station or even at the grocer. But it’s better than you waving a wand around when you’re in a muggle neighborhood.”

“Thanks.” He replied in a voice tinged with curiosity at the generous gesture. He pocketed the gift. “Sorry for fucking everything up again. Just get that information to everyone and then scatter. You still need to try to find whatever the thing is you’re looking for, Snape couldn’t give me any details on that and I briefly caught a glimpse of some research Hermione was doing when you were in a tent. Something that set Weasley off and he left?”

Harry stiffened. Did Draco know what he was talking about? Just how much into Hermione’s mind had he delved into?

“What I need…I know it’s held up at Hogwarts.” He replied flatly.

“Of course, in Death Eater Central.” Draco sighed. “Just what the hell are you supposed to find anyways? Another weapon?”

“Of sorts.” He couldn’t say for it was protected under an Unbreakable Vow. But he had news of his own to share that he’d been unable to, and now felt like he was delivering a crippling blow to his new ally. “Draco…look, I didn’t get to tell you this because of the pressing matter yesterday…but…well, there’s no good way to say it….Dobby’s dead.”

For a moment it was if Draco hadn’t heard, the way he just stood in place and how nothing about him moved except the barest hint of breathing. And then he blinked. He blinked and continuously blinked for several seconds until his face screwed up and he inhaled sharply through his nose-still raw and bruised-and his eyes started growing red with the threat of tears.

“I don’t what happened when we escaped the manor, but when we landed and caught our breath, we were checking ourselves for wounds and splinches when we saw it…and it’s hard to say who did it, but the wound was too deep.” He swallowed thickly. “He passed shortly after. In my arms. ‘Happy to have helped’ he said. And we buried him….There’s a grave if you ever…” he trailed off, unable to say anything further.

Draco licked his lips but his voice still cracked. “W-where?”

“Outskirts of Tinworth, in Cornwall. Bill Weasley’s home and an Order safehouse.”

The blond gave a resolute nod in thanks for the news. “Best be off then. Got a world to save and all.”

Harry stepped forward and offered his hand. “For what it’s worth Malfoy, I don’t blame you. I see it in you. You didn’t have a choice. Hell, neither of us have. When we make it through this, I’ll take that offer of friendship, if it’s still standing.”

Blowing air out through his nose with a laugh-that still very much hurt-Draco chuckled and took the hand offered. “Always so damn noble. I’ll have to find new reasons to dislike you.”

“And maybe I’ll find new reasons to like you back.”  
……………………………….


	12. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days tests Draco’s sanity and sense as he learns about the Ancient Marriage Rite and his parent’s acceptance of it. When Hermione awakens he’s in for more than a rude awakening.

Friday, April 10th, 1998

Three days followed since the dark day in the dining room, Hermione still bound to her bed and sweating out the infection as potion after potion was poured down her throat and her body regularly cleaned by diligent house elves. Snape’s nutritional boosting potions were making visible improvements upon her bony frame, filling out her ribs and hips and shoulders. But no matter how many blood purifying and replenishing concoctions were poured into her, the wound darkened after the oozing ceased.

The letters were a stark bright red, now almost maroon, and were prominently raised, but no longer held the heat of fever. If anything, her body started to cool as if she had spent a time out in the snow. Her breathing slowed almost to a point where they were nearly positive she wouldn’t survive another hour, let alone the rest of the day.

Draco had not been handling it well at all.

When he came back from his meeting with Harry he dragged himself with heavy feet to his door, rested his forehead against it and mulled over whether he really wanted to mourn alone or torture himself further by standing vigil at Hermione’s bedside.

Naturally, he chose the masochistic route and led himself to the room designated for her, chiding himself for his stupidity that had led to the abrupt change. He’d never been so reckless with a wand before, even as a child. What had possessed him to attack her like that? Surely it couldn’t have just been the alcohol, little difference that made now with his mother warding the liquor stock against him and his father-as if they were children sneaking into a tin of biscuits!-and he had to deal with his emotions the good old fashioned way: terribly.

No mourning toast for Dobby. No blocking out the pain of what he’d done to Hermione the evening prior and the pain she was in now, practically dying in front of him. And without the chance to even make amends. He kicked off his shoes and dropped to his knees at the side of her bed, taking hold of the blistering hot hand and prayed.  
He prayed for her forgiveness. He prayed for her recovery. He prayed for the miracle that would allow Potter to win the war and put all this suffering to an end.

His father found him like that sometime later and took stock of the situation. There would only be one reason why a Malfoy man would be on his knees at the bedside of another. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the shock he expected it to be. Looking back on that day in the bookstore as he followed in after Draco and seeing the girl with an absurd amount of curly hair that must’ve cut into her peripheral vision and the wicked glare his son was casting off in her direction he’d felt the aura of her presence. When Draco had informed him of the unknown girl outperforming him in all marks, he’d done his research into the name Granger and found nothing connecting her to Hector Dagworth-Granger, despite the similarities in their Greek based names and matching initials. Then again, there were enough generations between in which a squib or two born in his line could’ve married off into muggle society and thus carried his magical genes.

They would never be truly certain.

At the time, Lucius had merely seen in black and white. She was beneath them no matter how proficient she was in practically everything. She was what was wrong with their world and why the purebloods were dwindling. She was the enemy. He indoctrinated his son to believe it and follow it. He recalled how intense her eyes met Draco’s when they were at the Quidditch World Cup, a silent fire scorching them both. He had mistaken it for contempt then. And then he’d faced off against the witch and a handful of her friends in the Prophecy Room, surprised by the ferocity in which mere children were standing in the face of Death Eaters, especially her.

Now here she was, prisoner of war, consort to his son, and promised servant of their dark lord.

He had to admit, he was impressed at the lengths the girl was capable and willing to go in order to survive. A lesser man would’ve already folded by now. She knew her brilliant mind was her asset, the trust she had from the others she could play upon. It was quite bone-chilling to see how she played her cards. After Snape and Draco both took their leave, his wife pulled him into the library archives to show him the map and explained what she’d discovered about the girl’s parents.

They were hidden and safe by what could only be the Protean charm, as it couldn’t get an accurate read on their location with Hermione’s blood to guide them. And blood-location spells rarely ever failed. It meant she had the foresight to protect them as the war gained momentum and started spilling over into muggle territory. They were her weakness she knew she would break for, so she sequestered them away under strong protection magic and headed off to battle like any soldier of a worthy cause.

Narcissa then pulled the dust cloth from the family tapestry, covered for the past fifteen years and guided her hand along the new white thread stemming from Draco’s spot and how it connected to the name of their prisoner. Lucius immediately understood what it meant, what had transpired even if his own son was unaware. Cast when the manor was still building its legacy, the Marriage Pact ensured that any willing virgin bedded by the lord or lordling of the manor in their bed would be automatically accepted as the next lady of the house. Willing being the key phrase invoking the magic, as it was all too common for a kidnapped daughter of a chief to be taken against her will. The Malfoy’s regarded themselves gentlemen in all endeavors and would never take a wife by such means.

“Did he know…?” Lucius asked her, eyes glued to the thread of unity.

“No.” she answered solemnly. “Given that there happened to be an audience outside his door, they were unable to speak at length. But she told me herself she willingly gave herself to him. There was no way she would’ve ever known about this. But we can’t ignore it Lucius, according to the law of our house and through the bloodline the girl is now our daughter-in-law.”

“Merlin’s buttocks.” Lucius muttered, rubbing his brow. “This ends us as a pureblood line, I hope you realize that?”

“Is that really what you’re so concerned about? Blood status of all things!”

“Course not!” he answered hotly. “Not when he’s killing wizards left and right for daring to defy him! Pureblood or not! Charity Burbage being half-blood had nothing to with the rhetoric she was teaching in the school! But was killing her necessary? No…” he trailed off; haunted by the horrid images of her broken body and the slithering form of Voldemort’s pet writhing around her.

“So it no longer matters?” his wife asked, dropping the cloth back over to protect their secret.

“Love, nothing except surviving this war matters. You, our son, and yes, now her too.” He came up and pressed his forehead to hers, taking her hands and stroking across her knuckles like he had done so many times in their younger years.

“No one else can know. We were already used as leverage against him…If the dark lord were to…he’d make Draco do such terrible things…”

“We won’t.” he promised quickly, pressing a kiss to her hand. “Just us….and we’ll find a way to annul it should she want nothing to do with us once this is all said and done.”

Now as Draco knelt against the floor and idly swept stringy curls away from her perspiration soaked forehead, Lucius knew he needed to clue his son in. With a gentle touch to his shoulder, he pulled Draco away and encouraged him to take a stroll with him, leading him right back to the library. Too quiet and brooding the whole while, he hadn’t questioned the odd room of choice as his shoes clacked along the wooden paneling. He still didn’t question when his father led him into the archives and only arched a brow the man pulled up the dust cloth.

“Tell me what you see.” Lucius ordered him. Oh how so many of his father’s life lessons had begun this way. He’d be reminded again and again of his ancestry, the proud warrior wizard blood in his veins, the blackened spots indicating those marked as blood traitors and how all of this now rested on him to continue with his marriage to a pureblood daughter of the sacred 28 families remaining.

Draco scoffed; he knew that tapestry by heart. What was this, another fucking lecture? He was about to turn away when a single white thread emitting from his name caught his eye. It was too crisp and new to be ignored, bright and almost pearlescent. He followed it as it strayed away from the tree and connected to a budding rose with an inscription underneath.

~ Wife; Hermione Jean Granger. Date: 04/04/98 ~

“What….is….this….?” he choked on whispered breath and thick tongue. He spun to his father. “Is this a joke?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” the man replied dryly. Lucius Malfoy was not the man at the party, glass in one hand and a little group of simpering sycophants chortling at the latest ‘An Animagus, a Veela, and a Metamorphmagus walk into a pub’ joke for their delight.

“I don’t understand…” Draco panted, panic settling in his bones at the wrath he was about in evoke out of his father. Perhaps that had been in part for the reason of his mother’s uncharacteristic brutal handling of him hours ago. “I don’t…really.”

Lucius sighed. His son could be awfully thick for one so brilliant. “Dear boy, when our family was granted this land life was lived by a different set of rules. One such was the brutish way in which the clans went about establishing their alliances by kidnapping chieftain daughters and taking them for brides against their will. By the time a rescue to could be established the woman would be with child and thus bound to those who took her. The Malfoy’s were no stranger to such acts in war, but were adamant about not intergrading new blood into the line in that manner. A spell was woven into the very fabric of this house’s foundation. Only a willing maiden would be selected to become the new lady of the house.”

Draco felt dizzy with the story his father told, speaking softly and plainly, with no hint of anger or disgust. He fully expected the vitriol of bedding a Mudblood to be slapped against his already battered ego and that as their lord’s newest spy and pawn that he no longer had need to keep her. He wasn’t expecting a little history lesson that including an odd sense of chivalry amidst the brutality of war crimes.

“Willing?” he echoed. It certainly didn’t appear to Draco that she’d been willing; then again he hadn’t given her much time to consider how she wanted to go about it either before he untied her robe. Telling him to just ‘get it over with’ didn’t exactly equate ‘oh yes please’. But she didn’t fight him either-for which he’d been grateful. He didn’t think he could actually go through with it if she had. But it was old magic they were dealing with, and words held more power than one realized. “She didn’t have much of a choice not to be.”

“Still son, she is now your wife by the Ancient Marriage Pact, and there was no such thing as divorce back then. You have a responsibility to protect her and provide for her.”

Draco pushed against the table nearby, throwing his hands in the air. “Like I’ve been doing? I keep fucking up left and right! She hates me, she always will, and when she finds out she will actually kill me. That I have no doubts of. You might as well pick out the flowers for my funeral.”

“Don’t be dramatic Draco. We will not be telling her. No one but us and your mother knows and that is how it’s going to stay.”

“Right, because it’s such a blight to the family name-”

Lucius grabbed his son and yanked him upright, meeting his startled eyes. “Because the less who know the better chance she has of surviving, and not being used as leverage against you as your mother and I were.” He delivered with an impassioned severity that left no doubt in the young lord that his father bitterly regretted leaving his son in that predicament. “I have made so many mistakes Draco, I have made all the wrongs choices when it came to this family, this war. And you have paid bitterly for it. You should be in school, celebrating your final year with friends and looking forward to your bright futures, not this…”

“Wait…how are you not even upset about this?” the bewildered blond responded, finally standing up on his own and out of his father’s hold. “Why aren’t you screaming about how I’ve ruined our family?”

“Because if anyone has ruined this family, it is me.” the old man stated with such regret that Draco could hear the tears in his father’s voice. “And don’t tell me you feel nothing for her. I’ve seen it…in all the times when we have met…in your eyes. You’ve always wanted her.”

Draco brought his arms to wrap around himself. “And she will always hate me. I long ago ruined any chance I could’ve ever had, even if I had your blessing. When this is all over…she will leave. She’ll never come back. I’d be lucky if she spat on me as I’m dragged off to Azkaban.”

If she even lives through this…

“Draco…your mother and I, this war has made us see things in a whole new light. It’s no longer about Pureblood versus Mudblood; it’s just the Order and the Dark Lord. We’re all disposable to him regardless of the blood in our veins. The Malfoy name is no longer once the prestigious honorific of years gone by.” He swallowed thickly and turned to the tapestry, pulling the dust cloth down over it once more. “No one comes in here; there hasn’t been a need to check the family tree since you were added. It should be safe from prying eyes. As Snape said, we currently cannot trust Miss Granger with this information, as the Dark Lord may see into her mind.”

The younger Malfoy teetered with the weight of it all. That, coupled with an empty stomach made for the lightheadedness he felt as he tried seeing his way out of the archive room, but his steps faltered and he nearly hit the floor had Lucius not seen his sickly pallor and glossy eyes and reacted with paternal instinct. He helped lower Draco gracefully to the floor and called for an elf, as he was wandless. An older elf named Marco appeared before his master and apparated his son up into his bedroom and assisted him out of his shoes before tucking him in to rest.

Draco never did have the constitution to handle stress.

After recovering from his fainting spell, Draco’s mood plummeted into the kind of depression that was laced with rage and nothing was sacred as he stormed through the manor screaming at elves, throwing anything in reach, bursting into bawling fits and dragging his nails across his skin until he bled. He barely ate and when he did it was tasteless, and despite all his efforts he could not get a hold of a single drop of liquor to quell his nerves. He smoked all his cigarettes and set his curtains and Hermione’s tent ablaze with his handy new little fire starting toy.

By the second evening, Voldemort had returned and the hoard, reveling in the success of the raids and tortures of muggle sympathetic wizards, with the Dark Lord presenting a handful of confiscated wands for Lucius and Draco’s choosing to replace his stolen one. Lucius would have to contend with the fact that his beloved wand went unrelinquished by his commander in chief. Draco selected one dark walnut wand with a dragon heartstring core and a slightly gnarled shape that pulsated with a comfortable feel in his palm and he all but grinned with childhood glee when he felt a compatible bond to it.

When he heard the snicker of a particularly unwelcomed werewolf he felt his eye twitch and his knuckle crack as he fought the temptation. Then Greyback went on to discuss in greater detail of the exploits held in room just days prior with Vincent Crabbe Sr., having missed out while on a mission of his own.

“You won’t lay a hand on her again.” Draco growled before he could stop himself. “She is mine and mine alone.”

Fenrir let out a hooted laugh, elbowing the wizard standing beside him. “We’ll see bout that boy.”

Draco whipped the wand in the werewolf’s direction and struck him with an electric shock hex before flying over the table and launching himself like a madman. Considering the state of mind he was in, it wasn’t too far off the mark. Voldemort simply accio’d both their wands away from each other and allowed the two to go at each other physically, with Narcissa wincing every time Fenrir landed a blow at him and Lucius gritting his teeth. Bella shrieked with laughter and cheered her nephew on as fellow death eaters started betting galleons as who would be the victor.

Draco had youthful energy, pent up rage, and the initial element of surprise, but he had nowhere near the amount of physical brawling that any werewolf of age ended up tallying, especially the night before a full moon. It was still a satisfying fight, even the blows he sustained didn’t faze him as much as he expected, adrenaline pumping like lava in his veins as he released a war cry and drove his fist into the creature. It wasn’t until a hole was punched in the plaster, three decorative plates smashed to bits, and Draco’s hand around the hilt of an ancestor’s ceremonial blade torn from its place above the mantle that Voldemort put an end to the skirmish with a wave, freezing both in their tracks.  
A collective grumble fell from the lips of those gambling for a different turnabout as Voldemort clapped for attention with a little announcement for his inner circle.

“Gentlemen, as entertaining as this little spat between the children was, I have something far better in the likes of turning the tide in our favor. Once the little pet of his recovers, I will reveal to you my new secret weapon.”

The news received claps and encouraging responses, with feral smiles and cheers for more firewhiskey from the terrified house elves that had ran for cover during the brawl. The Dark Lord remained tight-lipped on the details of his surprise for his men, despite Bella’s purring in his ear and hand on his thigh. Fenrir glowered at the young wizard as he swiped blood away from his lip with the back of his hand, promising silently that if he caught him alone then it was game on. He would hold nothing back. Draco spat a mouthful of blood at him as he was helped to his feet and slammed back the closest tumble of whiskey regardless of it owner and his mother’s cut-off protest. It was the only one he imbued before retrieving his new wand and retreating from the room to tend to his own wounds.

Narcissa and Lucius continued playing the gracious hosts until it was acceptable to take their leave. The meeting adjourned shortly thereafter with Bellatrix joining Voldemort back to his designated guestroom. It was no great feat finding Draco, standing at the foot of the bed of his secret wife, bloodied and bruised and silently begging for her to wake up. The elves had shrunk away from him ever since his volcanic outburst the day prior, so none offered to heal him. He didn’t want it anyways, letting the pain become the only thing he could feel in the moment. It was tangible and cathartic.

He regretted it the next day, of course, waking with a groan and eyes already peppered with tears as he moved in the slightest of ways. He hadn’t even bothered cleaning the blood off his wounds nor changed out of his torn clothing, waking to the disapproving scowl of his mother as she loomed over him with crossed arms. At least it was a better greeting than the last time. She spun on her heel in a huff, leaving him in the hands of his elves to give him potions and start his shower.

Narcissa refused to allow him to wallow, healing his busted knuckles and the scrapes left behind from the brawl, just glad that the cuts hadn’t been deep enough to not only scar but to infect. The full moon was a day away and Fenrir’s newly caught and bitten victims would be taking on their first transformation, building up Voldemort’s army. As the elves stripped away the bedding and clothing she found the coin and held it tight, knowing it was Draco’s lifeline to the Order and read the newest message scrawled across its surface.

~ Shell Cottage ready for raid ~

She closed her eyes and sent a silent prayer that those who had been staying there had acquired another safe hiding spot if they’d already given one up to help keep Hermione’s new allegiance façade up. Goodness, the lengths they were all going through…

……………………………..

It was in the late afternoon of the third day when the living corpse that was Hermione suddenly flushed with life; color in her cheeks, warmth to her skin, and a normal cadence to her breathing. She woke with confusion and alarm, finding herself tied to a bed, wondering what foul things could’ve happened to her and began to cry with the fear that the dark wizard had not kept his word to her after all and allowed his men their turn with her.

Amber was immediately at her side, brushing away tears and murmuring encouragement as well as expressing the upmost joy that her mistress had recovered and looked in better health than when she first arrived. She untied Hermione and led her to the bathroom for her to relieve herself and then slipped into the tub for an invigorating soak, calling to Marco to send word to the Malfoy’s that their “guest” was awake.

In her comatose repose, the elves had been ordered to not refer to her as Miss Malfoy but by her maiden name Granger. As dutiful servants to their masters, they obeyed without question. Such was not their place to inquire the machinations of their lord and lady. The elves’ magic was tied in with the familial magic of the house, and thus they had felt the change ever since the first day when the ancient rite had been unintentionally consummated, and following with ancient tradition, referred to the young woman with her new title. Now with her double agent status and connection to Voldemort unclear, they couldn’t risk him finding out through her-even if she occluded it away.

“Young Miss Granger has slept for three whole days with fever!” Amber said as Hermione brushed the loofah against her skin.

Three whole days? Fever? Wait….she called me….

“Amber, why are you now calling me by own name?”

The elf froze like a deer in headlights for a second, before bowing respectfully to the witch as she clutched onto a towel. “Was mistaken, young Miss, thinking before speaking. The High Lord and Lady Malfoy’s corrected Amber’s folly and it won’t happen again.”

She remembered Harry telling her Dobby used to beat himself when he thought he’d done wrong, and on occasion met the end of Lucius’ cane in public. Worry set in that this sweet little creature had met the same kind of punishment. “They didn’t order you to hurt yourself, did they?”

“Oh no no no young Miss! We don’t do that anymore! Not since You-Know-Who has come…” she whispered as if it were a secret to be kept. Hermione felt there was a deeper underlying issue as to why, probably too horrid to delve into. It was best left at this and not pressed further. She was happy enough that Amber had not been made to self-deprecate and accepted the towel. Her body felt different somehow, fuller and heavier, but also stronger…it was strange in the way that it almost felt unnatural, piquing her to seek out the full length mirror by the vanity.

As Amber happily pulled out several options of dining appropriate clothing, Hermione undid her bathrobe and stood in front of her reflection, taking in the sight of her new curves and fuller breasts, shocked that she’d somehow undertaken a metamorphosis of sorts in her three day reprieve from the world. It was a body she didn’t recognize, as if she would’ve recognized her own withered form from living in a tent for the past year where mirrors simply were not a necessity to have, and certainly not ones large enough to see her whole body.

The little elf eased her to sit on the padded stool and handed her a pair on thigh high, solid black stockings, to which she automatically accepted and started sliding up her well-defined calves and thighs, feeling the alien plushness of her skin and how sensitive it was at even her own touch. She sat there, experimentally running her hands over her filled out hips, feeling little rolls at her waist and belly, up along the thickness of her chest and how the ribs were no longer prominent, until she was cupping breasts fuller than they’d ever been before, learning herself.

‘So this is me now?’ she asked herself, her reflection confirming. It felt like she was still in her fever dream, having never woken up. The dark red letters on her arm though, belayed that little denial.

“Hermione?” a voice cut in through the fog of her thoughts, immediately straightening her back and setting her eyes into narrow slits, knowing who it belonged to. She heard his footfalls come from around the room divider and the abrupt hitch in his breath upon seeing her naked form sitting in nothing but a pair of stockings, facing her reflection.

…………………………

The dark council was once again convening at the grand dining table, everyone dressed in their finery, silver masks set before them as they took their seats. The evening meal had already started when Marco popped up and meekly approached Lucius, announcing the Granger girl awake. Draco’s head snapped up and met the Dark Lord’s, his dark eyes glinting with veiled amusement.

“By all means, go fetch her.” He said, waving him off. “See to it that she’s ready to prove her word.”

Draco didn’t need to be told twice and didn’t look back as he made a graceful bow and slow walk out, each step carefully controlled as he passed the parlor and main foyer before bounding up the stairs and all but bursting into her room without knocking. When he didn’t immediately see her, he called out, concerned that she might’ve slipped in the bathroom, but then Amber signaled over to the room divider over by the vanity, and he saw stocking-clad feet peeking out from underneath.

He peered around and felt all the breath leave his lungs at the gloriously naked Hermione sitting atop the padded stool like the models in those adult rated magazines, making him go hard nearly instantly. Three days of worry, unable to touch or even talk to her and now she was seated like she was the Gryffindor Sex Goddess, eyes narrowing into displeased slits upon his arrival, unabashedly displaying her body without a modicum of modesty in her.

“What?” she snarled at him. “It’s not as if every living creature in this house hasn’t seen me naked.”

He opened his mouth to protest but promptly closed it, finding the point practically impossible to refute.

She stood up and looked over her shoulder, glancing at the reflected buttocks and taunt thighs on display. She caught his leering grey gaze and curled her lip.  
“Yeah, I get it; I’m fat now aren’t I? Even more disgusting with my scars and filthy blood? Why don’t you just quit with the pretense of attraction to my body when I know it revolts you?”

He blinked back in shock. Clearly, she was still irate with him. Ok, that he could handle, for when wasn’t she? But fat? Revolting? It took several seconds for his mind to assimilate the information and digest it before formulating a response. “A little bit of fat is healthy.”

He could’ve slapped himself.

“Healthy?” she gripped her hips and pulled at the little roll of skin that lined her pelvic region and jiggled it. “What the hell happened to me? I didn’t have THIS!”

“Nutritional supplements. Those are natural curves you’re supposed to have!” he blustered; total in shock at the way she regarded her form. “Hermione, you were undernourished for months, this brought you to where you’re supposed to be. A woman’s supposed to have looser skin there for when she’s with child. Don’t you know this?”

“Do NOT call me by name Malfoy.” She growled, completely ignoring his argument. “You do not get to suddenly turn around and treat me like a person with feelings and someone you care about after how you came at me the other night, busting your door down like a drunken barbarian and tossing me around the room for your enjoyment! Not after you so succinctly made it clear that I’m nothing but a filthy little Mudblood to you even after you’ve taken to fucking me in every room of this house!” she shrieked, pointing a finger up at him, eyes burning with fire and hair swishing about lively.

“You don’t dare get to act like it didn’t happen, and that I can easily forget it with some pale arsed compliment about this body you so thoroughly enjoy abusing. Fuck you Malfoy. Fuck your goddamn face and every word out of it-”

He grabbed her and pulled her into a lip searing kiss, holding her arms tightly as he nipped her bottom lip hard enough to make her part them, slipping his tongue in and sweeping upwards and around, staking claim to even the interior within. She uttered muffled squeals in protest as she squirmed in his grip, trying to lift her arms high enough to slap him but he held them firm at the elbow, preventing such movement.

He pulled back, just enough for a breath-

“Motherfucking twat! I hate y-”

And slammed his lips back against hers, dominating her indignant screams with more pressure and tongue flicks, mindful to not get it caught between her teeth.  
When he pulled back again, she took a breath to continue her rant, he cast a Silencio and watched the pupils of her eye shrink with unbridled hatred and a silent snarl as she bared her teeth at him, trying to take a bite at his chin when he accio’d a silk tie from his wardrobe and made quick work of binding her wrists so she couldn’t strike him. He firmly grabbed the bound wrists and held them over her head, forcing her to look up at him, her gaze penetrating and soul striking, enough to make even Medusa proud.

“I have spent the past three days worried that you would die before I even got the chance to make a proper apology.” He stated calmly, peering down at her. “I make no excuse, intoxicated or not. I shouldn’t have. And I know I can’t promise I won’t do it again, because I seem incapable of keeping my word. I get given chance after chance to prove myself, and all I do is prove what everyone else thinks. But I’m sorry. I thought I had done something far worse with the way my mother came at me, but honestly, I’ve done my damage, time and time again. You’ve only ever seen the worst of me. I want that to end.”

He sighed and rested his forehead against hers, feeling her flinch at their contact. He lowered his voice to a whisper, his next words uttered like a prayer. “Let me prove it you. I never want to hurt you. Not here, not out there, not ever again. Let me show you, I can be good. I can be the master worthy to have you. We’re a team, right? Isn’t that why you chose me?” His other hand stroked her cheek but she jerked away from it and tried to clamp her teeth on the digit.

“Fine then, stay angry with me princess.” He said, resigned to contend with her wraith for as long as it would last. “But when we leave this room you are my pet and will obey. And you are to give up the location in Cornwall for them to raid.” He then grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked it back. “Do you understand?”

She gave a minimal nod, eyes never leaving his, lip in a curl.

“Good girl. Now, I have half a mind to keep you silent, but the way you’re scorching my soul makes me curious what lovely terms of endearment you have in store for me. And you’re welcome to scream them as I ravish every inch of you.”

Her eyes crinkled as she squinted invisible laser beams right into that forehead of his, her nose wrinkling in utter disgust at his pompous behavior and how she hated the way his voice still sent those odd little tingles through her even when spewing his lewd statements as his eyes undressed her-although she was already naked, she felt like he’d found the invisible layer between body and soul and stripped it away.

She felt the silencing spell fall away as he waved his hand and then brought it her plush waist and gripped onto it tightly. “And you are not fat. If you dare to label yourself as such then I will bend you over my knee and spank it out of you. Your body is perfect.”

“Funny.” She scoffed. “I thought it was damaged, after all it has such ugly scars and filthy blood coursing through it. Fucking sweet talk your way out of that one.” She dared at him when he brought her wrists over his neck so he could promptly lift her arse in his hands and press her against himself.

Amber chose wisely to make herself scarce at that moment.

Draco heaved her up into his arms and pressed her back into one of the beams of her four poster bed, feeling her arch up against him away from the uncomfortable cylindrical surface. He took her bottom lip between his teeth to elicit a seething gasp from her as he bucked his hips against her core.

“So you like tying me up?” she hissed at him.

“I like control. It’s time to remind you who wields it.” He answered with the signature smirk of his she’d come to hate so much in school. Underneath the words she felt there was a reasoning for his domineering attitude and behavior. Another audience listening in? Another order to put her in her place? Fine then, she could play that game.

“Untie me you pale arsed little bitch.” She growled at him before he slid his tongue down her neck and clamped his teeth into the flesh of one breast. “Ah! You’re a goddamn cheater, can’t handle me with my hands free….knowing I’ll slap the shite out of you.”

“Damn straight.” He chuckled, taking her nipple into his mouth and sucking on it harshly.

“Motherfucker!” she cried as it felt like an electric shock.

“Correction, that would be Mudfucker, to you. Nasty little term isn’t it?” he sneered into her ear as he used one hand to start undoing his trousers. “Would you like to be delegated that instead? No? Didn’t think so.”

“You’re a disgrace to every man who considers himself a gentleman.” She snarled, tensing as his fingers teased at her core, thumb running along her clitoris as one finger slid into her. “Abusive…drunk…misogynist…control freak!” she panted with each thrust of his hand.

“Pathetic…cowardly…Momma’s Boy!” she hollered as he teased her into climax, blasting the last word loud enough that he was certain those downstairs heard it. Oh well, at least there’d be no pretenses about his methods of “getting her ready” as it was left quite open to interpretation.

“Now that’s hitting below the belt.” He warned.

“See if I care you pansy-assed albino ferret faced pampered ponce!”

He laughed, knowing it only infuriated her more. Good. He wanted that fire. Wanted to be enveloped and reduced to ashes by it. “Making tongue twisters now? Have to say it has a nice ring to it.”

She let out a scream of frustration and bucked against him, gripping his hair and yanking it back for all she was worth, twisting it until she knew he couldn’t pretend to enjoy it as he hissed and jerked his head sideways to escape her clutches. He pulled her off the bedpost and carried her a ways before stopping in front a lounge chaise next to the reading nook. He bet she didn’t even know all of her books had been placed in the shelves along with her own crocheted blanket he’d found in her beaded bag. He hung his head and slipped her wrists over as he set her to the floor and quickly spun her around so she faced away from him. One hand placed on her back had her bending over, the other primed and ready, coming down fiercely, leaving one red handprint on her right ass cheek, her high pitch yelp sharp enough to shatter glass.

“Want another?”

“N-no…” she sniffled. It stung far too deeply for her to brush it off.

“A little trust then, if I untie you…” he offered.

“Mmm hmm.” She whimpered, one ass cheek a blazing hot pulsating mass of neurons exploding and the other unbothered, causing a great imbalance in her equilibrium. When the tie was unbound and her hands free, she was able to support herself in the way she wished, and put more weight on her left leg than her right. Her knees buckled when she felt his hand gentle smooth over the blistered skin, trailed down until he reached her pussy, still wet and dripping. Just a few teasing strokes and she was aching for him to just get it over with and let out an almost song-like intake of breath as he slipped in effortlessly, all the way to the hilt. A hand grabbed a fistful of hair and it was all she could do to keep herself braced upright as he pounded into her with driving force.

Gone were all the volatile words, the urge to kill him, and the remote sense of embarrassment of even being in this position when every thrust was hitting that spot in her that rang a bell in her mind, her eyes watering with euphoria as her nails dug into the cushion and she let out a crystal shattering cry, clenching around him with the tsunami of fire and lighting erupting in every pore of her skin, feeling him continue as he soon followed with his own, cock pulsating as he came into her.

Breathless, he held her flush against him as he leaned over her, bracing one hand on the cushion, dropping endearing kisses to her shoulder as he regained his senses and slowly extracted himself from her and she fell against the lounge like a ragdoll. He flicked his new wand over with the blessedly handy Scourgify and set to readjusting himself, thoroughly pleased with her freshly-fucked face and how her breasts rose with each breath.

“I hate how well you do that.” She huffed, bringing a hand to wipe her brow.

“Hmm, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard that. Feels like a compliment, but then again, not.” He cocked his head to the side in faux contemplation. He accio’d her dress over and motioned for her to sit up. “It’s not like you can compare me to anyone else.”

“Prat.” She weakly snapped. “I meant that you’re only seventeen…you shouldn’t be this…well…experienced in this kind of thing…”

Oh, was that a blush he saw?

“Oh Princess, I’ve been doing this ‘kind of thing’ for years now.” He laughed. “But with far less feisty hellcats to be sure.”

She scoffed at the term hellcat and glared at him as he held her chosen eveningwear in his hands. “Like I need to hear the exploits of you and your two-sickle brothel wenches. Let me guess? Fourteen? A coming of age rite all Malfoy men partake in? Told as long as you don’t beget a girl with child you can do whatever you want?”

He felt as if he’d been slapped and doused with ice cold water by his mother all over again. Yes, that was EXACTLY how it went about. His fourteenth birthday. An establishment of discretion and reputation. A girl just barely older than they were now who guided him into all the nuances he’d need to know about a woman’s body as she touched him in ways he’d never experienced. Though she was paid handsomely of course, as all the girls were. Only the best for the birthday boy.

Whatever retort he had on his tongue died as he slipped the dress over her head and started struggling as it no longer fit her previous measurements. He had to expand it some and decided some strategic rips in the skirt to show off those shapely legs was in order. She was all but bursting out of the bodice, so he transferred material from the waistline to fill out the cup and bust, thus giving her a mid-drift bearing dress, with the bodice laces fully exposing the valley of her breasts.

Pulling her to her feet, he tore little holes into the sides of the skirt, creating the illusion of laces so it matched the top. He quite liked his handiwork, exposing her skin-scars, freckles, and lovebites for all to see. Accio’ing a pair of heeled ankle boots, he brought her over to the mirror for her to see his handiwork.

“I look like a gothic whore.” She deadpanned.

“Well, considering you’re mine, I’ll have you look however I please.” He retorted.

“Knickers?” she asked, watching him give her what she could call a Grinch-like grin. She shook her head and scoffed. “Never mind. Let’s go parade me around like the show pony I am.” She said, starting to march off before he took her arm and held her in place for moment.

“Don’t ask how I know. Just target the cottage in Cornwall.” He instructed.

“You have my coin. How else would you know?” she supplied, completely unfazed with the fact. “How long it’d take you to figure it out?” she snickered, throwing her unruly hair back, not even bothering with brushing it. She looked wild and was kind of digging the look, regardless of her previous statement.

He didn’t deign to answer as he took hold of her elbow and walked with her down to the dining room.

“Oh, do me a favor and set a cushioning charm on your lap if I’m to sit on it.” She sighed once they made it to the main foyer. To that, he let out a little laugh but swallowed it down quickly the closer they got to the dining room. He was not thrilled with the impending mission that would be delegated. He pushed open the door, all heads turning in their direction in a near choreographed single move.

“Ah, so good of you to come.” Voldemort chortled, clearly making a joke at Draco’s expense.

Narcissa brought a hand to her brow, hiding her embarrassed face as Lucius tugged at his collar and coughed. Oh how awkward. Clearly they’d heard the interaction between them. Draco straightened up and walked proudly to his chair and took the seat, casting the cushioning charm before patting his knee for her to come join him. All eyes were glued onto her lithe form as every curve swayed with each step, her skirt flared out, showing off her legs. She had grown used to receiving odd looks in school, her association with Harry in question for several years, especially with Skeeter’s articles and his testimony that Voldemort returned when he dragged a lifeless Cedric Diggory back from the maze.

Their stares meant nothing. Not Fenrir’s lustful intake of her body, pupils blown wide and nose twitching, no doubt scenting Draco all over her as he gritted his teeth with a barely contained growl. His senses were even more piqued at this time and Draco knew it, shooting him an undeniable ‘Fuck You’ glare while flicking his tongue over the top row of teeth as Hermione settled herself into his lap, flinging her leg up just to see how many Death Eater’s eyes followed.

All of them. Even Bellatrix.

God, they were so predictable.

But she feared none of them. Instead she bowed her head respectfully in Voldemort’s direction. “Good sir.” She greeted.

“So you pulled through after all.” He crooned in a voice dripping like honey, looking her over.

“I did. I presume you want me to show proof my new allegiance?” she offered sweetly as she plucked up the goblet and handed it to Draco.

Voldemort spread his hands out in a ‘show me’ gesture.

“Anyone have a map?”

…………………………………….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you reading my other works, The Peacock & the Otter, and With The Parents of my Enemy, I know I was supposed to update on TP/TO but due to power outages, water being shut off, and the monthly curse, I was unable to finish writing the latest chapter and decided to just go forth with this already typed up chapter for this fic.
> 
> We just got water back on, but alas, not working in the kitchen (hopefully a thing we can fix on our own) so washing dishes is still a chore, hauling water from the bathroom, lol. Done it before, I can do it again. Anywho, I'll be working on chp 68 of TP/TO and hopefully uploaded soon!
> 
> Erotic art scene provided by Raymond Shaw   
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaymondShaw/pseuds/RaymondShaw
> 
> Oh here's the dress in question: https://pin.it/7yKx1MG


	13. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Hermione awakens and heals, she jumps headlong into proving her new allegiance-with perhaps too much enthusiasm-and Draco struggles to keep his place among the ranks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Music to play at the specific marker: Paralyzed by NF
> 
> I wrote this scene before some of the previous chapters, the idea just struck me, that Hermione would be willing to charge headlong into an attack on a place she knew that belonged to Order members while Draco falters.

A map was provided from the library, the one she had seen marked with known Death Eater and Order establishments on the morning of her first official day as their prisoner. Having it laid flat before her, she was on her feet tracing a finger along the edge of the continent, resting on a spot in the south western region by the English Channel.

“This.” She said pointedly. “This is Shell Cottage, an Order safehouse and home of Bill Weasley and his wife.” She looked around at the black clad audience before her. “You’ve already attacked the Burrow once, you can hit it any time you like, but this is a property inherited by their aunt. Mostly unknown and unnoticed. More than likely, they’re housing a few members.”

Bellatrix gave her a cynical eye before turning to Voldemort. “How can we trust the word of a turncoat? Who’s to say she isn’t leading us into a trap?”

The Dark Lord inclined his head, directing Hermione to continue.

“The Weasley’s have been good to me. I’d rather they not be killed, but they’re a large enough family to sustain a loss or two. Ron may have been my friend for several years but he’s proven to be a yellow-belly coward when things get hard. I’ve honestly never met Charles, so I can’t say what he’s like. Percy’s got his wand so far up his arse I’m surprised he can even sit. And the twins, they thrive on chaos and mischief. They always work together, like they share the same mind. But Ginny, well…” she looked around at the lecherous men seated before her. “She’s a pureblood and if her mother is any indicator, she’ll be fertile as the day is long, she’ll make a good wife to someone wanting to keep their line pure.”

Draco felt like he’d been punched in the gut, hearing her speak so crassly about the wizarding family that all but adopted her as one of their own.

“Ah, now that does make a difference on her part…” their leader agreed, casting his eyes along to his men, many of which were single, widowed, or married in but held no strict loyalty to, in the case of Rodolphus and Bellatrix. It was no secret what she was doing. “Keeping the bloodlines is tantamount. The young Weasley girl shall be unharmed when captured until we’ve gathered enough. Obviously, there’s so little options left to go around…”

Several men jeered and made suggestions to the man sitting beside them. Somehow the term “wife” didn’t feel like it’d be her designated role.

Bella harrumphed. “Turning in a few Weasley’s. How do we know you haven’t warned them?”

“Like how?” Hermione snapped at her. “I have no wand unless I’m literally under supervision to use it. I haven’t mastered wandless or non-verbal, and I haven’t been anywhere else other than four rooms in this place. There’s no way for me to contact anyone.”

“The elves keep surveillance on her when she’s not with one of us.” Narcissa politely interjected. “I can assure you, any attempt to do so would’ve been discovered by now.”

Bella curled her nose, clearly not impressed. “My lord, this is your secret weapon? We were already getting information out of her as it was.”

The Dark Lord took to his feet and sauntered around the backs of his seated men, coming up to the girl in question. He held her arm up to be seen by them all. The darkened letters carved into her skin reeked of the same magic as their own Dark Mark. Being branded in such a way meant her loyalty was unshakeable, undeniable, and she was as much a part of their group as the unmarked Snatchers and supporters.

“When I call, you answer.” Voldemort hissed against her ear. “When I order, you obey. And in exchange, you get to continue living as the Malfoy Pet.”

His dark eyes slid across to meet those who had taken their pleasure with her, and those who clearly wanted to. He could see the dangerous glint in his youngest Death Eater’s eyes, as he regarded them all with contempt should they try anything with his property, knowing that he gained an unseen trump card with his devious plan. Whether Draco realized it or not, he’d shown his hand, his possessive tie to the little witch, giving the Dark Lord a new leverage to hold against him should the young wizard prove difficult once more. All the more evident was the girl’s obvious schoolgirl crush on him so naturally she’d do whatever it took to be with him. 

If she thought she was being so clever with her pact she was sorely mistaken, as he had plenty of ways to inflict pain unto her should it suit him. As it stood, an unharmed witch made for an obedient and determined Draco, who had all the potential to become his second-in-command once Potter was dead. Her will to live rivaled that of many a man before him, even for a Gryffindor Mudblood he admit she had more balls than some who served him. She certainly didn’t snivel and grovel as one Peter Pettigrew, although she did betray her friends as he had done. Perhaps the Gryffindor trait of loyalty had been grossly misinterpreted self-preservation, and loyalty lay with the one in power.

“A special case has been made for this little witch, now no longer a Mudblood, but a Half-blood with my gracious gift flowing through her veins. And only those I deem acceptable shall touch her. I shan’t be having consternation among the ranks.” His sharp fingernails caught a handful of her curls, pulling her to face him. “You have my protection spell as long as I have viable proof of your loyalty and obedience. You disappoint me and it’s gone.”

“Yes sir.” She immediately replied, unblinking and unflinching.

“Draco!” he called, nearly startling the blond right out of his chair. “You have her wand?” Draco nodded. “Good. Tonight then, we see what this witch is capable of.”

“You’re seriously going to arm her?” Dolohov erupted, speaking on behalf of those who felt the same way.

“Scared Antonin?” Voldemort chuckled. 

The dark wizard scowled in the direction of Hermione and Draco. “Tis not right, to arm the enemy.” 

“Oh Anton….” The Dark Lord cooed. “Ye of little faith. Do you doubt me?” his gentle tone invoked the unveiled threat with those words.

The man bowed respectfully. “No, my lord. What I doubt is her. Perhaps the boy too.”

“My son is no traitor.” Lucius bit in darkly, glowering at the man. “Mind your tongue about your petty grievance you have with him.”

“Awfully accepting of this…” he waved his hand up and down “Slag of his, parading her around like the painted whore she is-”

“What he does with his claimed witch is no different from what you did days ago, only now you are denied that privilege and now are stomping your foot like a petulant child.” Lucius scoffed with disgust. “Grow up and accept our High Lord’s verdict; she is not for you. Any of you.”

Draco felt a swell of pride for his father then, such of the likes that he hadn’t felt in years and could’ve applauded his vehement retort if he didn’t worry the act would only test the ire of their commander and thus take it out on him in some ungodly painful fashion. He pulled Hermione back into his lap now that Voldemort had released her, wrapping his left arm up across her chest to rest his palm possessively upon her breast. She tensed only for a second before relaxing into his touch, making certain that she wore a pleased smile to mask her anxiety.

She never did like being the focus of attention.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen…” the raspy voice oozed out, bringing the argument to a halt. “Time is a’ ticking, and there is a cottage to raid. Let us be on our way.”

………………………..

|……………………….Paralyzed by NP……………………..|

He didn’t know what to expect, but once they had all apparated to the location there was no doubt a cottage on the seaside, a dim glow illuminating what he assumed was the kitchen as smoke billowed softly from the chimney. He prayed that the house lay abandoned for there had been no chance to warn anyone. He kept one arm wrapped firmly around Hermione’s waist as they stood on the dune overlooking the humble abode. For a second, he envisioned the cozy interior and the warmth it would no doubt emit from a loving family gathered around a table to eat, or a newly married couple snuggled on the sofa as they basked in the arms of their lover.

It would be a beautiful place, a happy place. In happier times.

Voldemort held back his eager crew, Bellatrix itching to set the place ablaze as she did Hagrid’s cabin. Instead, he instructed Draco to hand Hermione back her wand before he cast the Imperio on Lucius.

“Lucius, keep your wand trained on the little witch at all times. Should she think she’s clever enough to turn it on any of our men, Avada her instantly.” The Dark Lord commanded and Draco was helpless to obey as his father, knowing they were of the select few that could harm her.

His father stood stoically, wand arm raised, poised and unwavering as Draco placed the wand back in her palm. He pleaded silently with her, imploring her not to act upon Gryffindor rashness and force his father’s hand. She gave him a resolute nod as her fingers softly dragged along his, her promise just as silent. Then she stood at Voldemort’s side as he ordered her to lead the attack.

Time ceased as he watched Hermione blast the door in with a well-aimed Bombarda, a shriek of inhuman sorts screeching into the air, causing joyous laughs from the other Death Eaters, his heart clenched at the thought of someone still within who hadn’t yet left in time or might’ve stupidly returned for something. Oh Merlin no, please this can’t be happening….

“Incendio!” she cried, unleashing a flaming rope from the tip of her wand, striking the house with all the vehemence she unleashed on him not even an hour ago. The fire crackled and sparked, wooden furniture splintering and emitting black smoke into the night sky, blotting out the stars.

How can she stand there so calmly? Did she not hear that scream?

She summoned forth boulders from the shoreline, slamming them into the cottage, rendering it to splinters as it burned. The look on her face was set with determination, emotionless and focused. The wails from within the house ebbed away as she slowly walked forward, wand still aimed at the remnants, Lucius at a short distance behind her, his wand trained on her.

Was this merely for her own sake of survival?

His aunt danced in glee at the sight of flames, screaming with unbridled joy when she found a body. A male. One with red hair. Draco felt the blood pulse in his ears as he followed the group, trying to occlude but was grabbed by his uncle and pulled to the front line.

“Quit dawdling, else your pet upstages you.” He warned.

There, unmistakably, the body of who he assumed was Bill Weasley, a charred and battered mess, body broken and blackened, only the shoulder length red hair left to identify him. Another call rang out, indicating the discovery of another body, a woman this time. Draco had to swallow the bile in his throat, his dinner threatening to come up.

No. No no no no….

This wasn’t supposed to happen…

Why had they said the cottage was ready if they weren’t? Did they not expect such a large group to come in force? Or was it the sight of Hermione leading the charge that caused their hesitation? 

“Who is it?” Goyle Sr. asked, kicking at the woman’s thigh.

“Fleur Delacour. His wife.” Hermione answered mechanically. “I guess they lived up to their marriage vows.”

“Well well, look who’s killed two blood traitors with one blow.” Yaxley snorted with a sick sense of admiration. “Not even Draco could complete his first kill mission now could he?”

Laughter echoed in his ears as he looked upon the burned human shaped remains of two people Hermione had supposedly cared about, attended their wedding, and had called family. He was rooted to his spot in the sand as the rest of the Death Eaters made their way around the perimeter of the property, destroying anything in sight and laughing like children splashing in the surf. The dry sea grass was lit aflame and further desecration was done to the property as they levitated the burned corpses and staked them to erected beams for public display. He turned away from the sight, scrubbing a hand over his face as he tried to gather his bearings. This was too much, too much. 

He walked away from the blazing rubble and crucified bodies, kicking loose rocks and shells with his boot until he reached the top of a dune to find a grave marker. His breath hitched, realizing this was it. The resting place of his former house elf and friend, Dobby. And so recognized as a free elf, the marker read, burning a hole in his heart that Potter had seen that it would be known. With his resolve crumbling, he whipped around when he heard a crunching footfall come from behind, finding his little witch with her hair dancing in the wind, looking like the primal warrior witches of old. The form his Imperio’d father stood behind her, white hair flying freely unbound, eyes focused but not seeing, wand pointed as ordered.

“Don’t show weakness.” She said, echoing his words back to him. “Now move.”

For a moment he was confused by her message, until he saw her arm begin to rise. Fearing the absolute worst he darted aside as a Bombarda blasted from her wand, effectively destroying the gravestone and the soil around it, shattering the dune in an explosion of sand and dirt…and elven body parts…

His throat was dry with shock.

It was like being on the Astronomy Tower all over again, wand wavering…everything happening in the matter of seconds that dragged on for eons, in that one blink of an eye Dumbledore stood and in the next he was falling, plummeting silently, robes and hair flying with all the grace of a leaf on the wind until the inevitable sickening thud when his body hit the courtyard below. All these details he could see so clearly now, even a year later, but in the moment were incomprehensible as he only focused on the old man while trying to muster the courage to end his life to save those of his parents.

But it was happening before his eyes. Now.

Hermione, with her hair as wild as his aunt’s, her slashed black dress flapping in the ocean breeze, and her eyes dark, mouth set firmly, wand aimed with deadly accuracy, she was everything his nightmares could be made of. To see that once radiant light corrupted in darkness as she reined destruction upon the ground around her without a flutter of her lashes. She was the secret weapon, living up to her promised purpose in order to survive. But what was the point of surviving if everyone you know and love was dead and gone?

What was the point of living if you lost what made you human?

He was paralyzed. His eyes went on taking in everything with acute clarity, searing into his memory. Aunt Bellatrix laughing and dancing, congratulating the girl for her work. Voldemort gleaming a toothy grin, clearly pleased with her performance. The other Death Eaters taking their fun where they could with lighting the sky with red sparks, scorching black lines into the sand in the design of the Dark Mark. Fenrir pacing back and forth in the background, eyes glowing with the reflection of the fire, a curl in his lip as he regarded the witch he coveted.

Clearly the werewolf was feeling the pull of the moon and the bloodlust therein.

There was a terrifying numbness in his body. He didn’t feel cold, the ocean breeze or the chill that comes with experiencing horror. He didn’t feel hot, the blazing fire or the elation that Hermione had performed well. He didn’t even feel nauseated anymore. His body didn’t belong to him, his spirit detached and gone, flown away from this nightmare. This had exceeded every imagined scenario, every expectation of what could be expected of her. Pointing it out on the map sure, yeah absolutely. But having her be the one to burn it down? To kill those inside? To desecrate the grave of….

He closed his eyes. He couldn’t take in anymore or he’d break down. He willed himself to hold out a bit longer. Just make it to the Manor. Just make it to the bedroom. Just make it to that safe place in his mind.

But the night was long. And there were other places to tromp through, spreading across the countryside like a living plague, destroying everything in their wake before finally retiring for the evening, the men in good spirits and awe of their newest recruit as she knelt before Lord Voldemort and handed him her wand in the way a knight offered their sword to their king.

Draco had wanted to die before, for different reasons. 

But none of them had hurt as much as this one.

……………………………

For the first time since she’d arrived at the Manor, Hermione walked the halls of the massive ancestral home without fear for her safety, of course with an elven guide, as she was still technically a prisoner, but she also had to admit she only knew the direct route from the bedroom suite to the dining room. She’d been allowed to eat dinner in the great dining hall at the table of her own accord-some sort of grand gesture on their part she supposed-as Bellatrix regaled her actions to a horrified Narcissa, turning a sickly green with the gruesome details but maintaining that pureblood pedigree of feigned interest.

Voldemort had taken Lucius and Draco into the drawing room, extending his congratulations in private now that the hoard of theirs had taken their leave.

“Excellent work Draco.” The Dark Lord praised his young acolyte. “I am thoroughly taken by surprise at this turnabout of events. You have great intuition when it comes to the little witch…what is her name again? I’m afraid it has slipped my attention in lieu of more pressing matters…”

You mean it didn’t matter before when you considered her nothing but chattel…

“Hermione Granger.” He answered. 

There was a beat of silence as their commander mulled the name over in his head, as one would when tasting wine, letting the liquid wash over their tastebuds. "An interesting name to be sure…” was all he said about it.

The Malfoy men were left to contemplate what tonight’s mission meant, for them all as Bellatrix took her leave and they were left with their ward. She’d just finished her meal, daintily dabbing her lips with her napkin with all the grace of a proper lady and not the cold-bloodied killer Draco had seen barely an hour prior. Despite her three day poison-induced coma, she’d exhausted herself with the outpouring of magic she’d expelled and asked to be excused. Draco waved her off, barely able to look at her. Judging by the strained body language exhibited by his parents, she assumed they were regarding her in the way one did a werewolf after their first moon, having no control of their actions.

She stopped at the doorway, turning her head but not meeting their eyes. “I did what was necessary. For the record, it was not what it seemed.”

Receiving no reply, she exited with the supervision of Amber.

Draco slunk into a chair at the dining table. “Mother, for the love of all things holy, let me have a drink.” He was surprised when he met no resistance, her own mind swimming with the visions her sister conjured for her. In fact, the whole trio needed a good stiff one-or two-and sat in numbed silence. 

In a word, Draco was shell-shocked.

He knew she was a co-founder and prominent member of Dumbledore’s Army when he helped Umbridge bust in on one of their dueling lessons. He heard about how she attacked Weasley with a summoned flock of birds last year. And rumor had it that all three of them took down the troll that got loose back in first year. She was a formidable witch, letting nothing like friendly attachments get in the way. In a sense, he had expected some fair amount of pretending and play acting from her, after how easily she fell into it her first day, in his room. She knew what was expected of her and delivered.

But this….This far exceeded it to a point where he didn’t know where the line was that separated the act from the fact. After gulping down another burning swallow of whiskey he pulled out the coin and ran his thumb over it…He had to let Potter know…

He drew his wand over it, writing in short disturbing detail of what had just happened.

~ Cottage burned. Weasley & wife dead. ~

He wanted to add “I’m sorry.” but that would never be enough to express the churning acidic guilt in his gut. It didn’t take long for the galleon to warm up, a new message in place of the one he just scribed.

~ Decoys dead. Weasley’s safe. H knew it. ~

He dropped the coin with a clatter against the wooden surface, shaking. Lucius reached over and slide the coin to himself, silently reading the missive. He and his wife shared a relieved sigh, pressing their foreheads together and clasping hands. Like a calming draught had been poured over the lot of them, they exhaled heavily and basked in the good news.

~ House rigged with WWW gag products. No harm done. ~

“What’s WWW?” Narcissa whispered.

Draco racked his brain a moment. It was right there on the tip of his tongue, some sort of tongue twister name…gag products….a shop….the twins! The Weasley’s shop in Hogsmeade!

“Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes.” He supplied. “They came into some money fifth year and started their own shop. Drove the professors around the bend with all kinds of screaming, exploding, smelly toys and sweets.”

“Hmmph. She did say the twins thrived on chaos.” Lucius remarked. “It would seem she had intimate knowledge of their stock.”

It was almost enough that he wanted to kiss the galleon and bless the name Weasley for Sainthood. He may not have a clue how she knew, but somehow, she knew that the place had been set up for total annihilation and anything found there would only serve to credit her deceit, hence why she was absolutely calm when destroying the place.  
But that still didn’t explain what she did to Dobby’s grave…

And that small bit was what prevented him from running right up to her room and breaking her door down and losing himself in her embrace, whispering that he knew.  
Professor Snape was right. He couldn’t fully trust her. The Dark Lord with his dark blood and his dark influence…

Just as he had pretended to kill her parents, she had pretended to kill members of the Order. Both deeds done to please Voldemort and prevent further harm to each other. For now.

The only difference being that he knew the things she didn’t, unsure of her reaction to them when that time came and if he would regret it when she did.

………………………….

Saturday April 11th, 1998 

Hermione woke with a sense of pride in herself, alone in her full sized bed surrounded by soft pillows and clean sheets. A week here and she was already used to the comforts afforded, no longer bound by guilt since it was apparent she was never leaving this place again. At least, not anytime soon. She knew that Harry and Ron had reached some point of safety once arriving at Shell Cottage, and while she mourned Dobby she knew if any of the others had seen the grave marker that they would’ve done worse degrading things to the elf’s corpse.

Better to do it herself and detach from it than to see the others seeking perverse joy in it. Surely Draco knew that as well, not that she cared how he felt about it, but he was on the verge of breaking down and she couldn’t have him falling apart and ruining her first test of loyalty. 

And he’s the one who’s been dealing with these people day in and day out for the past two years….

She chose a sensible outfit, scoffing at the fragility of the pureblood prat. He was all bark and no bite. Always had been in school. Only because she was bound to him by his stupid claim did he have any power over her, and even then it he barely wielded it with panache. It boggled her that he was choosing to play the nice guy with her, saying all those insanely sweet things and touching her tenderly…But she knew it was just his tactic to chip away her armor since he couldn’t outright break her down. He learned that long ago, that he would always be in second place to her. He could study, practice, and brew to his heart’s content but he would never take the lead.

And she’d never give him the chance to.

Taking in her reflection to see how the day dress lay against her curves, she felt a sting in her left arm that dropped her to her knees, the letters burning with liquid fire, so hot she was surprised blisters didn’t bubble up at the surface. It could only mean one thing: she was being summoned.

Scrambling to her feet, she flung her bedroom door open, never minding the loud crack as it bounced off the wall, her feet hard and heavy as she pounded through the hall and down the stairs, somehow knowing just where to go as she ran without grace or conscious direction, all but flinging herself into the drawing room and at his feet, heaving for air as he merely chuckled.

“Obedient to a fault.” He mused. “I daresay I expected some resistance for your first summon but it would appear that Snape was right about you. Eager to please. Doesn’t know how to fail.”

She kept her head bowed down in subjugation. “My lord.”

“I am going to ask you something Miss Granger, and your answer will have consequences if you speak falsely.”

Her blood chilled.

“We wouldn’t want anything to happen to your new little family now would we?”

Her head jerked up.

Threatening the Malfoy’s? Weren’t they the crème of the crop in wizarding society with pureblood status and wealth? Were they so disposable?

She nodded nervously. It was then that she noticed she was truly alone with him, no Bellatrix or Nagini, not another soul in sight.

“I know that you were on a mission with Potter. What were you searching for?”

Her breath hitched. “Unbreakable Vow.” She stated, unable to say the word in direct response to his question.

“Is that so?” he cooed, pressing his fingers together. “You took great measures to secure that knowledge, for failure to keep that promise will result in your imminent death. Quite the strategist you are…” 

There was a beat of silence that lingered heavy in the air around them as he regarded her and she tried not wavering under his scrutiny. 

“I though, know that you know things about me.” he said in the way in which one had a secret they were just dying to share. “It began with a journal, did it not?”

Her eyes widened.

“Yes girl, you know what I speak of. And that is what your friends sought in Bellatrix’s vault, was it not? A mere nod will suffice…”

She shrugged her shoulders. Honestly, it was a hunch they acted upon, she didn’t know it would be there for certain. But it was as honest an answer she could give.

“So, you are aware of the others?”

She winced, trying to figure out a non-verbal response to give. For sure, she knew there was an item of Rowena Ravenclaw, and Nagini. But as for Harry? That was pure conjecture although highly probable. It was hard, her head moving in a strange shake but also nodding. Which meant that she knew something but not definitively.

“Hmmm…..you are a curious one…” he leaned in close like an animal sniffing her out, gaging if she was prey or a threat. “I’ve never met a muggleborn so intelligent before. No wonder you caught the eye of young Malfoy.”

Beg your pardon?

“He may be the master of your body, fucking you how he pleases, but I am the master of your life…as well as his own. He thinks he can keep you all to himself? Ha! You sought my favor, knowing I could provide what he could not, didn’t you?”

She barely registered a nod.

“You know where true power lies, and like a niffler after gold you follow it. You know that destruction of those particular objects weakens me, and that Potter searches for another…We’ll have to make it quite believable, that you escaped. And when you do, you’ll meet up with your beloved hero and help him find that which he searches for. Only you will secure it for yourself and return it to me, where I shall find a safer location. I am in no hurry to kill the boy but time is of the essence.”

She blinked rapidly, bowing her head. Was he truly trusting her so much that he was granting her freedom from the Manor to hunt down the remaining Horcrux?

“I might need help searching for it…” she ventured. 

He laughed. “The Brightest Witch needs help?” he mocked.

“Assistance, more like. To cover more avenues of possible locations.” She clarified.

“And you think your little pureblood lover will be an asset in that?” he countered.

She wanted to choke on the word ‘lover’. Ha, as if Draco Malfoy could be labeled something so simple. Regardless of the debatable gentlemanly treatment he’d given her in the library, he was still a “master” taking his pleasure with his “pet”. He made sure to remind her of that last night. There was no love in the equation. It would be all too easy to pretend it was so if she chose.

“He is a quick thinker, studious and knowledgeable. All traits I’ve admired in him.” She confessed. Honestly, the entirety of her interactions with Malfoy could always be boiled down to two words: If only.

If only he wasn’t an elitist snob.

If only he wasn’t a bully with racial beliefs.

If only he wasn’t surrounded by dimwitted sycophants….

If only he wasn’t so unfairly beautiful…

“It would be far more convincing if Draco came along with me, even going so far as to say that he fancies me enough to want to save my life. Naturally if I say he’s changed sides the others will believe me. And then you’ll have two spies in the ranks, searching for the object.”

Voldemort’s dark eyes glinted into slits. “Young men are most weak in the presence of a strong woman. He can claim ownership all he wishes but I have seen a change in him, ever since your arrival. A boost to his spirit you might say. While he parades your scantily clad body to entice the ire of my men, I know the look in his eye that burns when they do so. He wants none to see you but him, none to touch you but only him, is this so?”

“Yes.” She bobbed her head. “He demands my obedience and admiration. He promises to treat me kindly if I behave as if I care for him.” 

“Do you?”

She blinked back at the abrupt question, bewildered that she was having an actual conversation with Lord fucking Voldemort, and about Draco Malfoy of all things.

“Not in the way he desires.” She carefully stated. “Naturally his well-being reflects upon my protection and social standing. I must see to it as well as my own.”

This answer seemed to appease him, as he broke into a terrifying grin with a hissing chuckle. For a moment she feared she’d overplayed her hand. But that ebbed away as he idly draped his fingers over the arms of the chair and let the silence fall to that in which she actually could hear the peacocks out on the grounds. “Who knew that a clever little muggleborn witch with the unmatched will to live would become such an asset to me? ….. You’ll work wonders in my name.”

It did not escape her notice that he was using the more appropriate social term for her blood status, considering that after giving her his blood he decreed she was no longer a “Mudblood”. She knew he didn’t need to appease her in order for her compliance, goodness knew why he was doing so now.

“We shall see about including the little lordling, shall we?” he concluded the conversation, giving her the dismissive wave. “Enjoy your holiday.”

Holiday? Oh yes, Easter. 

Apparently, he had other plans and would not be staying around for Narcissa’s little fete she had planned. After excusing herself from the drawing room and entering the dining hall, she was met with the curious eyes of the Malfoy trio. She slowed her pace, feeling their eyes upon her as she took her chair to Draco’s left, her plate already set and still hot-no doubt thanks to a stasis charm-and picked up her teacup, letting the floral scent of the tea waft over her.

“What?” she asked, eyes closed. She could practically feel Draco’s eyeballs as if they were pressed into her cheek.

“What were you doing?”

Oh the urge to snap off with a spicy little ‘none of your fucking business, that’s what!’ practically rolled off her tongue but she withheld it just in time. She didn’t want drama first thing in the morning, or to disrespect the lady of the house at her own table. “Just having a chat.” She said nonchalantly, as if she’d been gossiping with Ginny and not the most evil wizard of their time.

“One does not simply ‘chat’ with the Dark Lord.” He intoned with a serious and scrutinizing gaze to which she only acknowledged out of the side of her eye, focusing on cutting her crepes and savoring the creamy filling.

“Apparently I do.” she couldn’t resist sassing back at him. She certainly didn’t answer to his pale ass when the likes of Voldemort were concerned. Nothing she conversed with the semi-immortal needed repeating at the moment, not when they could be used as leverage against each other and herself. Their deaths most certainly spelled her own demise and she’d sacrificed far too much to fall now.

Her response only further agitated him, but he dropped the matter with a warning glance from his father.

“So Voldy tells me he won’t be around this weekend.” She piped up in a cheery tone, like she was talking to friends about going to Hogsmeade. “Does that mean we’ll be having company?”

She could’ve laughed at the sputtered indignation of the nickname of their oppressive lord, and the casual neutrality in which she’d addressed them. “Just need to know if I should be holed up in my room or not.” She added before taking a sip of tea.

God, she loved being to get under their skin.

Draco wasn’t the only one who could slip a statement in like a dagger between two ribs. But to their credit, the lord and lady did have a small social gathering planned with their closest friends-i.e. more Death Eaters and their families-as well as prominent members of society. Between them, she could see the unease in which they wrestled with giving her an answer.

“No I get it.” She stated before either could start with an awkwardly worded excuse. “Truly, I do. I’m your dirty little secret that you can’t risk getting out. So I’ll be fine with a plate and book, in my room, minding my own business and pretending I don’t exist.”

“There’s no need to get snippy.” Draco huffed, shuffling his food around on his plate.

“There’s no need to act like the upper echelon of pureblood society won’t be disgusted to know that you’re slumming it with a captive Mudblood either. Is there?” she shot back with a cold shock to his system.

“That is uncalled for.” Lucius started to reprimand, but the two young adults were glaring daggers at each other, unheeding his verbal warning.

“Oh, you think you can talk like that to me now that you’ve got the ear of the Dark Lord? You’re in no position to be an uppity little bitch-”

“Language!”

“And you think I’m scared of you? A bully who can’t even handle a witch half his size without collaring and smacking her around with no wand to defend herself with? You know you can’t beat me in a fight of equal footing, you need all the handicaps you can get-”

“What the hell is your problem Granger? Are you on your fucking period or something?”

“Honestly Draco!” his mother cried out.

She laughed. “Oh yes, that must always be the reason why a woman is in a foul disposition, isn’t it? Always with the fucking period when it comes to your lot with your brain between your legs.”

“Sweet Salazar…” Lucius groaned with secondhand embarrassment for his own anatomy.

“I will silence you-”

“Oh like yesterday?” she laughed. “Just enough for you to make your petty little apology before slamming me against the bedpost!”

“Fucking hell Hermione my parents are right here!” he waved his arm out to encompass the fact that they’d been privy to their argument the whole time.

“Just like they were here last night, hearing every goddamn bit of it.” She countered, watching his lip twitch. “Along with every Death Eater and probably anyone within a mile radius of this place? You wanted them to hear it so cut the malarkey.”

“Would you two kindly take this to another room?” Lucius growled, clenching his fork hard enough to bend it.

“Gladly.” Draco seethed between clenched teeth, slapping his hand down on the wooden surface while staring down a witch that met his with every ounce of contempt with the force that would induce seizures in a lesser man. He reached for her arm to pull her away when suddenly there was a deafening thunk! and the room grew silent as the Malfoy trio all turned to see a knife wedged deftly between the third and fourth fingers of Draco’s right hand, rammed in by the little brunette with alarming clarity.

“Touch me again and you’ll lose the hand next time.” She warned, pushing back her chair and spinning on her heel, leaving him petrified with the knowledge that he’d nearly lost the fourth finger, the one bearing the Malfoy signet ring he always wore.

…………………………….


	14. Protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the night of the full moon, Fenrir Greyback gets loose, tearing through the Malfoy Manor like a crazed wolf. Now a true test of loyalty is in store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger for violence, gore, and House-Elf death

Evening of Saturday April 11th, 1998

Hermione sat in her bay window reading nook, knees up to her chest, crocheted blanket thrown over her bare feet, just marveling at the clear evening sky dotted in twinkling stars with the frosty pale periwinkle light of the full moon bathing the grounds below like the spotlight on a staged ballet. After the fantastic blowup at breakfast she’d made herself scarce in her room, relying on the faithful servitude of the elven staff to bring her food and refreshment.

If Draco hadn’t been such a prissy little arse I might’ve been willing to spend part of the afternoon with him, she grumbled for the hundredth time that day, seething every time it crept up to take center stage of her thoughts. Today would’ve been perfect for walking the gardens-her ruse to gauge Voldemort’s extent of power hadn’t been completely false-for much like the library, it was a sight she had longed to someday see, even if she had to settle for photos in the newest edition of Witch Weekly and Lady Malfoy posing with her prize winning peonies or whatever it was she had cultivated.

But alas, buttons had been pushed.

And when they were pushed, it was Game On.

She regretted nothing. Nothing she had said had been a lie or even a stretch of the truth and watching his face flush brilliantly gave her a twisted sense of satisfaction as she kept the blows coming, like a tidal wave spewing forth from her lips. It paled in comparison to the dead silence which followed when she slammed the knife into the dining table, barely conscious of herself doing it. She held up her left arm, wiggling her fingers and pondered the significance of that arm being the one wielding the knife.

Did it mean that Voldemort controlled this arm? Was it more sensitive to volatile emotions and thus prone to a quicker reflex to attack?

It was a theory that begged for testing, but testing could in turn create more problems. It was such a double edged sword that she couldn’t risk as the connection she felt to him when he summoned her that morning could link back to him, and draw his attention. Far too much risk involved. With too many variables it was unwise to do so, however much the curiosity prickled at her.

At the very least, she’d made it adamantly clear that Draco was to keep his hands to himself and under no terms did she have any qualms about removing one if he handled her in any way that wasn’t under a direct order. Privileged enough to be allowed to touch her didn’t automatically give him the right. And he certainly had some ground to cover if he ever wanted access to her again.

She counted all the times he’d had her. There was the first time, in his room, with his apologetic eyes and vitriolic mouth and exploring hands. The second time in the parlor when he occluded himself into an obedient but detached soldier just following orders. But the fight that happened beforehand in the kitchen had fueled her into barely feeling it either; there was nothing except rage between then. And then…well, the torture night which was mostly an occluded memory, but she remembered focusing on Draco’s form as he writhed on the floor, knowing that if she uttered a single word then any chance of security went out the window. So she boxed it and locked it and turned off the lights in her mind and the next thing she could accurately recall she was being slid gently into the tub with Draco climbing in to help support her as his mother and the elves tended to her arm.

It was disarming, how tender he could be when he so chose. And that night in the tub was the first true testimony that Draco Malfoy was capable of being a gentleman, with every soft caress and whispered promises of bringing her pleasure. And to his credit, he delivered. And then he kissed her. That first feel of his lips against hers, plush and pliable as they worked over hers, how a first kiss should happen. She had almost wanted to cry, how perfect it felt. When they were sitting on his bed drinking firewhiskey and making conversation that had been as close to a date, as close to normal as things could possibly be between them. And it had been nice. He hadn’t hurt her-at least not in the intentional way-and when he set her hands upon him informing her to do as she pleased; she felt freedom for the first time in her captivity. She explored his scar riddled chest, his broad shoulders, the thick tendons in his neck, and his unfairly luscious hair. Then he flipped them over so she was straddling him, giving her even more freedom, she let herself believe that if this was how he was going to treat her then she would gladly play her role as his pet.

Their excursion in the shower was merely him showing off, she mused, with him doing so many things to her body at once that it was a sensory overload. But the real battle of wit and will had occurred, appropriately, in the library. She had fought and countered every argument he could make about why he couldn’t have her lips if he had everything else, until he’d broken down, showing his vulnerable underbelly and forced her make the first move, meeting his mouth with as much gusto as she did everything when cornered. Fiery and passionate, making her lose herself in the moment, pulling at his shirt as he was to hers, it was like a chemical reaction setting off sparks and creating something new.

What that was, she hadn’t figured out yet.

She’d never forget the way he destroyed her defensives with just his tongue and teeth and two fingers, reducing her to liquid mess in mere minutes. The boy certainly had honed his skills in the few years he claimed to have been experienced. He made it an art. And then he’d pulled her into his lap and she’d taken over, seeing what pain she could inflict upon him. He ate it up and begged for more, allowing her to do as pleased to him. She hadn’t clawed hard enough, bitten hard enough or moved in a way that hadn’t had him correcting her, bolstering her to bite his lip and make him bleed as he had done to her previous.

His merciful groan and nails digging her into her flesh validated her inexperience into a lesson learned and conquered. She swelled with pride at herself for that.

And then he had to go and be an asshole, coming back piss drunk and demanding that she let him in, rudely waking her first of all, and then not having the sense to just go crawl off into a guest room-given that the one she now resided in wasn’t that far away from his own chambers-and toting her wand around with reckless abandon, blasting his door and levitating her. And then he just STOOD there as she reeled on the floor with a broken arm and he did nothing. He stood there and did nothing while his father-the man who carved his name into her arm-had knelt down and pulled her to her feet and took her out of there. 

It was then that she realized Draco was his own worst enemy, unable to hold himself in check whether angered or intoxicated or both, he let himself be swept up in the moment and endangered her life, causing further injury to her person after promising he wouldn’t be violent or cruel when there was no need for it. And that was what hurt the most. He’d broken his word to her. 

If he couldn’t keep his word then he couldn’t protect her, simple as that.

And thus she’d formulated her spontaneous plan, unsure of what direction it would take her and with only the vaguest idea of things to say but somehow she’d pulled it off. Intrigued the dark wizard enough to give into his own morbid curiosity, giving her what she wanted in exchange for deeds to be done in return. All Death Eaters but two was a damn good percentage. No one else had that guarantee, and she’d bide her time for when she could put that to use. It was far too soon for that. She’d have to destroy a few more safehouses and “kill” a few more Order members before they’d even remotely let their guard down. 

The three days Draco claimed she’d been out had passed in a heated blur for her. Just one long nap interrupted with potions and soup poured down her throat, leaving her disorientated when she came to, in shock of her new body’s form and how it felt different yet the same when she touched it. She hadn’t expected Draco’s reaction to it but she was filled with far too much ire to care. He had hurt her and he was going to hear about it by god! His apology had taken some of the steam out of her but she wasn’t going to give any ground just because of some well-punctuated words and came at him with her teeth when he silenced her.

What followed had been a mix of her wanting to feel his body and his words, all while wanting to rip his throat out and drink his delectable pure blood just to prove it was no different from her own. There was pleasure, pain, vitriol and passion. They were both on fire for different reasons, burning each other with their own flames, trying to reduce the other to dust first. A lioness and a dragon dueling to the death, only to end up wrapped in a tangle of tails and claws.

What a week.

What a goddamned week.

The longest week of her life.

She had pulled her planner out of her beaded bag-still marveling at how the thing had not been confiscated from her-and flipped it open, marking April 4th as her day of capture and Day One of her new life at the manor. A black X in the corner of the square to indicate what had transpired, with more black X’s notched in every corner of every day, with three blanks squares in a row for the days she lay with fever. And today. Because she threatened bodily harm in return after verbally eviscerating him in front of his parents.

He was wise to stay away from her today.

And what a headache-free day it had been. She looked forward to another tomorrow as they entertained guests for Easter brunch. Amber had proven to be not only a loyal and competent servant but a willing conversationalist when she made inquiries. Granted, she hadn’t pushed for anything personal yet but she had the feeling the little elf was loving the fact that there was a new human to engage with and chomping at the bit for more than just being ordered about.

She always made sure that anything that was “an order” was at least dictated to politely, with a please and thank you and a compliment for such prompt service and the fine food. Making them feel appreciated made her feel appreciated in return, giving her the sense that she secretly had allies if not admirers in the little magical beings. Given how hard her life had been in the past year, especially during winter, she could see the appeal of having at least one on deck. They never would’ve had to worry about their rations, the fact that Ron burned three individual meals-along with part of the tent and her clothing-and that some of the places they pitched had very little natural resources despite the camouflage advantage. 

Having an elf on their side would’ve prevented them being captured by the Snatchers. Even though Harry had Kreacher keeping house at Grimmauld Place, the elf’s disdain for her would’ve caused far too many problems while traveling on the road. He was far better suited to maintain his role of butler and seeing to the members using the location for safety until it was compromised.

She flicked her gaze upon the planner, the open calendar and felt a niggling thought creep into the back of her mind. Since knowing that life on the run would afford very little opportunity to be ill or injured, she couldn’t afford to let her monthly biological cycle hinder her and present an opportunity to be sussed out. So she had taken to preventing that measure in the same way she’d gone about planning out the details of protecting her parents and brewed a series of particularly strong contraception potions that also inabled the symptoms of her menstrual cycle. So, no blood, no cramps, no cravings. 

She had the date noted with a red star, that she knew, flipping back to March and finding none, and then to February; none, and finally seeing the red star, circled, marked on New Year’s Day. Of course, she remembered that, hoping that marking it for the first would help her remember to take the next one on the first as well with a day’s leeway either before or after if she were to keep consistent. March first had been Ron’s birthday, and April first had been the twin’s. The day was marked, and the star circled. The batch taken on January first was good for three months, so she had it then and on April first.

But, there had been distractions, one namely being Ron Weasley and first of his abandonment and then his return-with a destroyed Horcrux and the sword of Godric Gryffindor-and informing them how he’d come into the possession of said sword, and that he’d been staying at Shell Cottage with Bill and Fleur with the family ghoul at home in disguise of him having spattergroit so none could come to close else they be infected. She’d nearly forgotten to take it with how things had been so terse between the two of them that it was all Harry could do to bridge the gap with offering to cook and congratulating his friend and his victory for their side.

Despite the tremendous shift in the scales he had brought, it still had come at the cost of him leaving, and that was something she couldn’t easily let go, having recalling an extremely important and secret conversation she shared with Dumbledore at the end of third year. Professor Moody’s motto of “constant vigilance” rang in her head like a mantra, telling her over and over again that their dear friend wasn’t as reliable as they had come to believe. And even as the time with him grew back into familiarity, she still kept part of herself walled away from him, burying herself yet again within the pages of the Beedle and that symbol for the Deathly Hallows scrawled inside, and the passages that were either underlined or marked in some way that looked random to anyone else not looking for clues.

Now here she was, having abandoned them in a sense, playing both sides for survival, unsure if she could trust her own thoughts as she had seen Harry struggle with the ophiomormous lord in his mind as the years carried on. It was no secret that she knew Draco had met with Harry now that he had her coin. They’d received the Patronus informing them that he was helping her and in essence helping them. Though why and what he wanted in return she couldn’t say. If he really cared about her in the way he said then he wouldn’t have hurt her or called her a Mudblood again.

After all, doesn’t the truth flow more freely when one is intoxicated?

A heavy sigh escaped her. Having taking her potion and being sexually active this week when she had no idea when her natural cycle was due to start brought the instant fear that she might actually become pregnant, and that did not sit well with her. First of all being that she was in no way ready to become a mother, the ill timing of it-surely Tonks of all people could relate to that-and that it would be conceived by non-consensual means. Let alone who the father would be. That in itself would be the biggest issue. There’d be no way in hell he or his family would want her to carry to term, and while she currently loathed him with the fire of a thousand suns, she couldn’t punish an innocent life-to-be merely for its genetics. After subsequently erasing her parents from her, she’d fight tooth and nail to protect any life growing within her. It would be all the family she had.

Some time away from Draco’s advances would do them both some good.

The peace she had felt in the moonlight was gone now, replaced with worries of what could be with no one to turn to about them. It was sobering, to realize that her place now in the war was in a shade of grey of its own. The light, the dark, and now her. The Order, the Death Eaters, and now her. There was no set scale to balance now that she’d entered the playing field as an army of one, a variable neither side anticipated. 

“There are no sides when it comes to survival.” She repeated Narcissa’s words.

The only other person who could possibly relate to how she felt was Severus Snape, and he was neck deep in his role as Hogwarts headmaster under Lord Voldemort’s regime, overseeing the chaos and brutality the students were enduring. She wondered how many of them had taken the opportunity to return home for Easter Hols only to pack their bags and flee the country. 

She wondered if any of them were being hunted down and dragged back by Voldemort’s men. Or straight up being killed.

Shaking the thoughts aside, as they weren’t things she could afford to think about if she was going to keep up a heartless façade of a disillusioned Order member smitten with the youngest Death Eater, she gazed out on the manicured lawn wistfully, hoping that her parents-wherever they were-were safe and happy.

It wasn’t a thought she held for very long when the letters in her left arm began to burn, though not as intensely as they originally did when being summoned. Just enough to get her attention.

Then came the voice; raspy, grating, like a whisper…

“Granger….”

Hands flew to her temples, pressed against the intrusion.

“….I know you can hear me…”

She shook her head, no, she didn’t want to hear him, didn’t want to acknowledge him…

“…Oh Granger…”

Her breathing came in short bursts, the room began to tilt, and her stomach twisted in knots. The voice slithered in like an oily serpent, wrapping around the lobes of her brain and squeezed, giving her no choice but to acknowledge its presence. 

“…Run…run…run…” 

Her eyes were tightly shut, trying to block out the voice to no avail.

And then….an unearthly howl, one that chilled the blood and replaced one’s marrow with ice.

She knew exactly what it was, as she’d heard it once before back in third year.

“….let the hunt begin….”

Her eyes shot open.

Hunt?

She whirled on the window, and there, framed by moonlight in all his monstrous glory, was Fenrir Greyback.

And he was ready to hunt.

………………………

Draco laid in bed, elbows bent and hands cradling his neck as he stared up at the canopy, having concocted a maelstrom of thoughts he couldn’t escape no matter how he tried to escape. Every subject inevitably returned back to Her. Even Quidditch. Because he knew she had little taste for it and more often than not missed most of the games with her nose in a book instead, her physical appearance merely a display of support for fellow friends and nothing more.

It was even worse than the nights he’d spent in his dorm, before forces unknown had thrust them together and created a gravitational pull he wasn’t strong enough to evade.  
Just knowing how soft her skin was, how lush her hair, how pliable those lips of hers were…It was maddening. Having her hadn’t been enough. It had been a fleeting fancy to believe that perhaps after indulging in his most deepest darkest and buried secret would release the tension and set free all the little niggling demons whispering in his ear.  
If anything, he’d thrown more fuel on the flame and created a raging wildfire destroying everything in sight, demanding his full attention. It made no difference, if she were in the dungeon cell below or in her little tent on his bedroom floor, just knowing she was in his house was enough to send his mind reeling. Every opportunity to touch her he took to his full advantage, whether a grip of an arm, her bum nestled upon his lap, and the obvious indulgence of her body.

Over the course of the three days she’d spent at deaths’ door and the revelation from his father, something had changed. He felt it. There was a pain inside he couldn’t fathom, and it hurt worse than the Cruciatus. He was ready to fall to his knees at her feet and promise her anything when she came to, and the words he did swear to her had been coldly brushed aside. Looking back, he knew he acted rashly, hardly convincing of a man wanting to make amends. Whatever it was about her, it set him on edge every time, making him lose his cool no matter how well-practiced it was. She just had that effect, with a look, a word, even her silence-God everything!-he was reacting on pure instinct, with fangs bared aiming for the jugular that he could never quite get a hold of.

After her verbal onslaught during breakfast, with a butter knife wedged into the beautiful oak dining table, he’d endured the disappointment of his parents, saying nothing that convinced them he could turn things around. It was evident now that they held the girl in high regard, and expected him to get his act together.

She was his wife after all, even if she didn’t know it; she still deserved to be treated with respect.

And he’d been systematically trying to figure how.

There was nothing ideal about how any of it started, and very few options available to him to do so. He couldn’t actively be seen trying to woo her with death eaters and a spying snake lurking behind any given corner and he certainly couldn’t take her out for an stroll amidst wizarding London for an evening out. Known Death Eater with a member of the Order on his arm? Yeah, that wouldn’t go unnoticed.

The problem of all this was simple. He cared.

Cared more than he should. Cared more than he should show. 

But if continued down that route he’d find a knife blade at his throat with no hesitation from her for a third time, and he was determined to not let that happen. So he resolved to do better. He just had no idea how. At least touching her without her consent was a given that he could abide by. Unless he was ordered to for whatever reason. Which he sincerely prayed there wouldn’t be a reason for. As long as they both were living up to their expectations there should be no call it. 

Sweet Salazar’s sweaty nuts, why did his life have to be ten times more chaotic than the average wizarding teen’s? While everyone else enjoyed their pubescent years frolicking in the halls of school admiring girls’ legs under their skirts and feeling up each other in alcoves and storage closets, betting their friends whose virginity was still intact and whose was not, he was at the beck and call of the Dark Lord, promising to murder the headmaster, repair an ancient travelling device, and now fucking brutalize a witch for information on the enemy. The most others had to worry about had been their final NEWT exams and securing their betrothal contracts before this year when unholy hellish terror had been wrought upon them. Now most were lucky to survive-literally-to graduation without lasting side effects that would land them in St. Mungo’s for life.

He expected three possible routes his life could branch out into: staying as it was with Voldemort’s victory, being hauled into Azkaban upon his defeat, or being admitted into St. Mungo’s under the crushing weight of all the psychological horrors he’d endured, whether or not the snake-faced bastard won or not. Only in fantasy did he see anything involving Granger staying with him of her own free will. He knew it as well as geese knew to how to fly south for the winter, that once her collar came off and Voldemort breathed his last breath, she’d be gone in a puff of apparation without so much as giving him the finger in parting.

And he would deserve it.

Unless he did something.

“Aaaaaarrrrrooooooooohhhhhhh!” came the thunderous howl tearing through the normally silent evening, instantly freezing his blood in his veins. 

He shot upright in his bed, mind whirring a mile a second as to the how, what, and why, knowing damn well the who and where it was and the proximity from which it came. There should be absolutely no reason why the werewolves were this close to the manor house; they had special wards in place for this exact reason. Regardless of the events in the past when it came to entertainment of bored lords and ladies of the court, the manor was always secured to ensure the safety of those inside.

He planted himself at his window, but his room was facing opposite of the moon, thus only giving him few bands of pale silvery light to see, and no wolves in sight-which meant they were on the other face…

Where Hermione’s room overlooked….

……………………………

Before her brain could formulate a proper action, the werewolf turned his head-in her direction-and for a moment time froze as his blazing citrine eyes met hers and she KNEW that the man under the wolf’s skin was visually undressing her: clothing, flesh, and bone as his tongue curled up around his enlarged canines with a snarl. He crouched, and that was when she knew and started to turn, right as his powerful legs snapped upwards, propelling him through the air, up an entire storey, clawing at the bannister of the little balcony and hurling himself up further to crash through her window, raining shattered glass everywhere as he landed.

She was already at her bedroom door when the crystalline shards of glass went flying, some pelting against the skin of her arms as she turned the knob and yanked the door open in one fluid motion. There was no time to look back, no time to ponder if her protection spell would hold up against him in lupine form as she just reacted with pure instinct to run.

With a brilliant flash of elven magic, Amber had popped into the scene and held up a shield, preventing the monster’s claws from reaching her flying chestnut curls, screaming for her to run to the masters and seek shelter with the safe room. Hermione had no idea where it was so naturally she needed to get to Draco or his parents in order to do so. And she was unaware of where their room was, so Draco it was.

As the sounds of a terrible scuffle echoed in her ears she barreled on ahead, ready to throw herself against his door right as it opened, causing her to propel straight into him and tumble into a heap of limbs across his hardwood floor. He’d fallen upon his back, arms immediately wrapped around tightly pressing her to his chest as he took the brunt of the collision, feeling all the air whoosh out of his lungs upon contact.

“Silver!” she cried out loud, more to herself than to him. “I need silver!”

If there was anything she’d learned in her encounter with Professor Lupin’s transformation, was that if you couldn’t outrun the wolf or throw up a protection spell, then to arm yourself with something sharp and silver and pray.

In the second right after crashing into him and hitting the floor she was scrambling off him and racing towards his writing desk, rifling through the drawer for the letter opener she’d found her on first night.

“Silver….silver….silver…” she muttered over and over again, almost in a panic as a thundering crash and roar filled the air, just as she grabbed the hilt of the blessed blade.  
“Safe room!” she then cried out, turning to him just as he was ambling towards the chair where his wand had skittered to after falling from his hand.

“Masters!” Amber screamed, just as Fenrir pounced into the room, his gigantic haunches propelling him right into the center of the four poster bed. 

“Holy fuck!” Draco hollered, scrambling backwards from the bed as he was now too close to risk going for the wand. Fenrir whirled around and snarled, saliva and blood dripping from his snout as he launched himself in the young wizard’s direction.

Hermione reacted without thinking, rushing forward and throwing herself across Draco’s fallen form as he fumbled at trying to get to his feet, wrapping her arms around his neck as she felt a magical pressure push against her back, like a strong gust of wind. A confused gasp and angry howl followed right as Amber jumped up and once again pushed the mighty beast back with a shielding spell.

“Masters must go!” she shouted. “Must go now!”

Draco wrapped an arm around Hermione’s waist as he pushed himself up off the floor and spun on his heel, abandoning the wand as the elf struggled to maintain a safe distance between the werewolf and them, losing ground with every second as the empowered beast broke down her barrier, claws slashing right across the little elf’s body, spraying crimson ribbons across the floor.

“Amber! Noooo!” Hermione screamed as Draco carried her away, rounding the door and down the hall towards his parent’s room. “Amber please! Come to us!”

She watched as a limp elf body was hurled against the wall from the bedroom, a soft sickening thud as it met plaster and sunk onto hard wood, bright eyes wide open and blood dribbling from her mouth as she weakly raised up a hand. The werewolf charged after them, gaining ground, one lycanthropian arm reaching out to slash at Draco’s back when he suddenly froze, the last act of a dying elf, stilling the creature in place for a few seconds, giving them just enough time to make it into the master bedroom suite.

…………………………..

Lucius and Narcissa had had those occasional moments of parenting when their child brought out the most unexpected forms of embarrassment but for once there was no running to his defense with the protests that he knew no better. Twas a blue moon event in the first place where they ever raised a hand to him, as every child brings out at least one swat on the bum for a firm reprimand, let alone the cheek-as had been deserved for his actions days ago-but as far as the so-called conversation that had occurred at the breakfast table, it was truly a humiliating and humbling few minutes as the tiny witch unleashed a verbal tongue lashing that left both parents pink with shame in her departure.

After dislodging the butter knife from the table’s surface-oh how the poor thing had been so abused this week-and let it clang against the plate she abandoned, he let out a breath and wiggled his fingers with the relief they were intact.

“You know, she has a point.” He said to his son. “Clearly, you’ve taken to mishandling her at every turn and unless you want that knife embedded in your throat I suggest you change your approach. She’s suffered enough.”

Draco’s jaw unhinged.

“Quit gaping like a hooked halibut and put yourself to rights while you’re seated at the table.” Narcissa reprimanded as if he were a wee lad once more. “Did I not tell you to keep your hands to yourself? I’ll see to it the elves are to expect some serious injury on your part in the near future…” she replied coolly as she lifted her teacup. It was an evident ‘don’t come crying to me when she hexes or stabs you’ type of statement.

“Her obedience will only go so far Draco.” Lucius warned. “If you don’t make some attempt at neutrality at least then she will turn on you. Quit blundering your way through this like a confounded Quidditch player and use that Malfoy brain properly for once!”

Truly affronted, their petulant son stormed off to have his tantrum in private, leaving the lord and lady of the manor to inhale a resounding calming breath and let it out with all the panache of a disciplined yogi.

“Honestly Cissa, I truly regret ever helping bring Him back.” he sighed.

Now, hours later, they rested beside each other, for once at peace knowing their home was temporarily theirs again and sleeping restfully when the blood curdling howl of the creature of the night tore them from their slumber. 

Exactly two minutes later from hearing that terrifying sound their son burst through their bedroom door, Hermione wrapped around his neck screaming, and the reverberating tremors of the beast chasing them down the hall jolting them into action as they scrambled for their wands as they fumbled in the dark.

“The safe room!” Draco shouted at them. “Open the safe room!”

Ever since the medieval times, when secret passages and hidden alcoves often meant the difference between life or death in a raid between warring clans, the master suite had its own, among the few others smattered about in the foundation of the house for others to find safety. Over the centuries they were often upgraded to accept passwords or blood wards, or triggered with the touch of a secret panel or decorative piece of art. 

In his childhood, they had run drills-much like how muggle families would practice fire drills-and he knew the route to take by heart, although never having to for a real emergency. Now was one if ever in his life. A feral werewolf loose on a full moon’s night. And who knew how many others he’d turned that might be following him.

“Cissa, go!” Lucius ordered, pushing his wife ahead of him towards the wall where an ostentatiously large painting of nymphs frolicking around a pan flute playing satyr as the werewolf crashed into their room, claws digging into the wooden floorboards to prevent himself from tumbling into their bed like he had in Draco’s room. Lucius spun around and shot a missile spell, but the beast was fast as he’d ever be under the embrace of the moon and dodged it.

Draco finally set Hermione on her feet, ready to spin her into the direction of the painting as Narcissa was frantically searching for the special button hidden in the ornate detailing of the gilded frame when the stubborn witch planted herself firmly in front of him, arms outstretched.

“Get behind me!” she shouted, the letter opener grasped tightly in her left hand. “He can’t touch me.”

Again Lucius shot another spell, shouting at Draco to do so and him responding that he didn’t have his wand, eliciting a groan of exasperation from the patriarch as the monster came charging at them. Hermione grabbed the man and flung him behind as the lumbering paw swiped, claws hooking into the flowing robe and not his flesh as the invisible shield prevented further contact.

The werewolf bounced backwards, infuriated, slashing again and again, wildly aiming at the Malfoy’s, as long as they remained behind her they were untouched. Narcissa finally found the hidden notch, the painting opening like a door, but stuck in place since they were all huddled in front of it.

“We have to move forward!” she called to the trio surrounding her. But stepping forward opened them up to being attacked on the side, and Hermione’s reach couldn’t extend that far around.

In that second, Hermione made up her mind.

Lucius barely got half of the Unforgivable from his mouth before the beast shifted once again and tried attacking low, giving Hermione room to lunge forward with the letter opener, striking against the massive paw of death. Fenrir unleashed a tremendous roar that rattled her chest and broke her eardrums, backing up to give them enough room.  
“Get inside.” Hermione ordered, and then rushed forward.

“Hermione no!” Draco screamed as his father grabbed him and hurled him in right after his mother.

“Close it!” she barked, kicking the lycanthrope in his taunt gut before slashing across his face, then whirling around to his backside and grabbing a handful of lengthy fur and pulled hard. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Draco yelled at her, motioning frantically for her to join them before the door was nearly shut.

“Saving your ass!” she screamed back, clinging to the werewolf’s back as he twisted and turned and tried to pry her off no avail.

“Avada him!” he demanded, ready to grab the wand from his father.

“Don’t!” she hollered to his utmost surprise. “You’re being set up!...If you do it….” Fenrir dropped to all fours and did the canine full body shake, flinging her off and into a dresser with a bone crunching thud. She hit it and gasped as several points jabbed into different places along her torso and pelvis, making her eyes water and roll back as she fought to remain standing.

“Argentum funem!” Lucius cast, the silver chain snaking forth from his wand and striking at the wolf’s feet, only wrapping along one ankle. He reared his head back and howled in pain, clawing and thrashing the closest furniture and tossing it about like they were mere toys.

An ottoman hurled at Hermione, which she instinctually protected her head as it slammed into her, dropping her to her hands and knees.

“Hermione!” Draco called to her; the door kept open merely a crack so Lucius could peek his head out and aim his wand. Narcissa had her hands covering her mouth as she watched from the monitoring screen on the inside of the room, helpless to assist.

Seeing spots flash brightly before her eyes, Hermione knew she was well on her way to a concussion, and that if she was left out unprotected Fenrir could and probably would crush her to death by throwing furniture in her direction. Dragging herself somewhat upright, she pulled herself along the floor, inching closer and closer to the snarling werewolf still trying to fight his way into the closed off painting, hearing Draco screaming at his father to open the door and blast the beast to smithereens. Focusing on his voice, she followed blindly when darkness started invading her vision and nausea threatened to bubble forth.

This was certainly an inopportune moment to be sick.

Another broken chunk of something fell on her, across her legs and lower back, eliciting a scream that tore Greyback’s attention away from the passage and back onto her, sniffling the air as if savoring the scent of her blood in his nostrils. Momentarily forgetting her protection spell he lunged forward, met with an unseen force, stunning him for a second. As he shook his massive lupine head, snarling and swiping at his snout she reared her arm back and thrust the letter opener into the closest bit of flesh and twisted-remembering what Draco told her the night she held it up to his chest-ripping through muscle and tendon.

The mighty beast reared back and thrashed in pain, roaring and tearing through the room with that inhuman-yet-human wail in his throat, limping as blood poured freely, spilling amongst broken glass and splintered shards of antique furniture, giving her the precious seconds she had left of consciousness to push the rubble off her legs and gain more ground towards the painting as it opened and strong arms roughly yanked her inside.

…………………………..


End file.
